A Week with the Uncles
by GarvinMark
Summary: Continuation of 'This is the Story'... Eugene and Rapunzel go on vacation-um, I mean-'state business' and leave their children with the pub thugs... will they make it through the week?
1. Chapter 1

**Author Note**: Okay, I didn't really WANT to write another Tangled Fanfic, but this idea came into my head and I just couldn't help myself... :) Just so you know, though, I won't be able to submit a new chapter every day like I did with my last story (for those of you who are familiar with it) But I wanted to get this out here just because :D I hope you enjoy it!

_Soli Deo Gloria_

**Disclaimer**: Disney owns Tangled, its characters, and its story

* * *

Eugene stared at his wife, a knowing smile on his face. She was gazing out of the coach window, watching the familiar shops and houses of the city pass by. He asked, quietly, "You're worried about them, aren't you?"

Rapunzel looked away from the window. She smoothed down the front of her skirt, muttering, "I can't help it."

Her husband leaned forward, "Just so you know, the boys are _very_ capable at handling rambunctious youngsters. They adore the kids, and they would do anything to keep them safe and happy. Besides, there are at least twenty of them, and each one knows a hundred different ways to take down an armed man." He frowned, "Although, I'm not sure how well they could do against Thomas…"

"That's not what I'm worried about, Eugene. What I'm worried about is that we'll be away for an entire week. We've never left them for that long before."

"Yeah we did," Eugene pointed out, "we left Annabelle with your parents that time we went on our second honeymoon."

She sighed, "That was with Mother and Father and when we had only one child. Now there are three of them, my parents are out on 'state business', and my father's council is running the kingdom. And it's still going to be seven days."

Eugene studied her face, seeing the faint wrinkles of concern creasing her brow. Finally he nodded, "Tell you what. If you want to turn back right now—or anytime during our vacation—we will go back home. No questions, no excuses, I will make sure we are on the next boat back to Corona."

Rapunzel shook her head, "Eugene, you've been talking about this vacation for _months_. I'm not going to do that to you."

"And I'm not going to make you sit on a beach when your mind is a hundred miles away wondering if Ginger brushed her teeth or if Thomas tried to fly or if Annie is talking to that librarian's assistant."

"_You're_ the one who would be worrying about that." Rapunzel said, smiling at him.

"Well, that kid is about two years older than her and he has shifty eyes."

"She grew up with him. She's _still_ growing up with him. You always jump to conclusions without thinking it through."

"Perhaps. But I was being serious about returning home. Just say the word, and we'll go."

Rapunzel looked at his face, knowing full well that he was being completely honest. She thought about her children, and about the pub thugs who would be taking care of them for the week. They would be safe.

She smiled, "I think they'll be fine."

"You're still thinking about them, though." He said, tilting his head.

"Yes. But so are you."

* * *

Hook-hand gazed upward at the palace. He was always amazed by its extravagance and its size. This morning, bright sunlight was making the windows shine as the white walls rose up high and majestic against the blue sky. The wind fluttered the sun-stamped flags of Corona as they flew from the turrets. Soldiers in burnished breastplates lined every entrance, their spears held rigidly in their hands. Even the silence itself seemed to reek of a royal flavor.

It was an impressive sight, and he would probably have been intimidated had he not been friends with the occupants.

"George," Hook-hand turned to the servant retrieving his luggage, "just take that up to my usual room. I need to go see the kids."

"They are in the library, sir." George said helpfully.

"Thanks."

Hook-hand ascended the palace steps and nodded to the guards, "Morning, gentlemen."

They merely nodded in return and opened the doors, allowing him to step into the entrance hall. It was rather cold inside—despite the sunlight beaming down through the windows above. Hook-hand strode forward, his heavy boots making loud, ringing noises on the marble. He frowned. Normally a valet or butler or somebody would come and meet him upon entering the hall. But now… now everything was unusually quiet.

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a small blur speeding towards him. He turned around just in time to receive an armful of prince.

"Gotcha!" Hook-hand said, triumphantly holding a complaining Thomas in his bear hug.

Thomas squirmed against him, "Aw, no fair! You saw me coming!"

"Don't you know it's rude to pounce on your relatives like that?" Hook-hand asked, easily setting the boy down.

"Uncle Vlad didn't mind."

"Of course _he_ didn't mind. Vladimir is like a boulder, isn't he?" Hook-hand appraised the crown prince, grinning behind his mustache, "You've grown taller, Tom."

He smiled broadly, replying, "And stronger. You wanna see me lift the rocks out by the pond?"

"Maybe later. We have all week to do stuff."

"Where's Uncle Ralph?"

Hook-hand began to follow the boy back to the library, answering, "He won't be here until this evening. Then tomorrow, all the other boys will be coming over to visit."

"This week will be awesome! Annie said you guys might take us to the carnival while you're here." Thomas said, gazing up at the man.

"That depends on when you're parents are getting back."

"Dad said 'never', but I think he was joking because Mom rolled her eyes and told him to stop teasing us."

Hook-hand nodded, "Apparently women do that a lot."

"Yeah, that's why I'm _never_ getting married. I don't want to be bossed around."

They both turned and entered the library. The royal library was a large, two-storied room, filled with books, bookshelves, and tapestries of past kings and queens. A staircase led up to the second level, which was more of an extended balcony that overlooked the main floor. There was a fireplace against the far wall with a couch, several comfortable chairs, and a beautiful table positioned around it.

Annabelle, the prince consort and princess's eldest child, was standing in front of Stanley Isaacs. She was eagerly talking about the book she had just read as the librarian's assistant leaned back against the table, his arms folded and head nodding thoughtfully. He was a skinny, bespectacled thirteen year-old with short red hair and a serious expression.

Hook-hand raised his eyebrows at the sight but instead turned to the two people sitting on the rug next to the fireplace. Princess Ginger lay sprawled amid a pile of paper, coloring away as she explained to her comrade, Vladimir, about her picture. The pub thug was hunched over his own paper, his giant fingers nearly crushing his crayon as he listened intently to the tiny girl.

Ginger ran a stream of pink along her paper, saying, "My unicorn is going to have pink hair and a pink tail because she's a _girl_ unicorn."

"Mine's going to be purple with polka-dots!" Vladimir announced excitedly in his deep voice, making Annabelle and Stanley jump in surprise.

"Really?" Hook-hand asked, smiling. "And what is this imposing creature going to be called?"

Vladimir looked up, shrugging, "I haven't thought about it yet."

"Uncle Al!" Ginger said, springing up to hug the man.

Thomas frowned, "What are you guys doing drawing unicorns? What about dragons or something?"

Vladimir indicated the pile of papers, "We already did that. I got to use the sparkly crayons."

Thomas groaned.

Meanwhile, Annabelle and the librarian's assistant had continued their conversation.

"So, I just wanted to thank you again, Stan, for telling me about that book. It was really good."

"Anytime, Annie. It's always nice to find someone who will actually read all this stuff." He gestured at the surrounding bookcases.

She shrugged, laughing, "Well, I'm probably not going to read _all_ of it."

"Oh, I think you could if you hung around a bit more." Stanley replied, smiling slightly.

"Annabelle, how's it going?" Hook-hand patted her on the back, nearly knocking her over.

"Hi Uncle Albert." She regained her balance, smiling uneasily.

Hook-hand leaned forward to gaze interestedly at Stanley, "And who might this young man be?"

"Um, this is Stan. He—he works in the library. I've known him for a long time. Stan, this is Uncle Albert. He helped my parents out with the whole 'magic hair' thing."

Stanley politely held out his hand for a handshake. Hook-hand held out his hook.

"Oh sorry," he said, grinning widely as he unscrewed his hook, "I always forget about the hook."

"No, it's all right."

"Here, Tom. Take this for a second, will you?" Hook-hand tossed his hook to the boy, who immediately looked as if all his dreams had come true.

"Um, how about I take that, Tom?" Annabelle wrenched the hook out of her brother's grip, muttering, "The last thing you need is an eye-patch."

He protested, "But Annie-."

"No."

Stanley edged away from Hook-hand, "Um, Annie—I'd better get back to shelving. I'll talk to you later."

"Oh. Okay, then." She watched, a slight disappointment in her eyes, as the librarian's assistant walked off down a row of bookshelves.

Hook-hand turned back to Annabelle, "So, have you been practicing that piano piece I sent you?"

"I haven't really gotten the chance yet."

Thomas rolled his eyes, "Yeah, she's just been busy talking to Stanley."

"Well, duh, Thomas, he _is_ my friend."

"Ah." Hook-hand said, exchanging a glance with Vladimir.

"So, what exactly are your parents doing this week?" The giant thug asked Ginger.

She drew a curly pink mane on her unicorn, muttering, "Daddy wouldn't tell us."

"State business, that's what he told me." Hook-hand said, shrugging.

Vladimir nodded, "Makes sense. They are the prince and princess of Corona. What else could they be doing on vac—I mean, on out of the country trip."

Thomas narrowed his eyes, "Were you going to say 'vacation'?"

Vladimir hastily shook his head, "N—no I was going to say… um…"

Hook-hand sighed. This was going to be a _long_ week.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author Note**: I don't want to spend too much time with Eugene and Rapunzel since they want to be alone :D but I had to put a little bit up, just because its fun :D Oh, and thanks for showing enthusiasm about this fic! :D I think it will be a lot of fun to write and I'm already getting tons of ideas!

_Soli Deo Gloria_

**Disclaimer**: Disney owns Tangled, its story, and its characters

* * *

The ship continued to sail steadily across the ocean water, its prow neatly cutting through the waves. It was the finest ship of Corona, reserved for only the most important of passengers. The cabins were comfortable, the rigging tidy, and the deck spotless. But then the storm came… Sailors called out to each other in the darkness as thunder sounded on the horizon. The men continued to perform their duties on ship amid the rain and lightning. However, their captain thought it prudent to inform his passengers of the state of things.

He knocked politely on the door of the cabin, mopping water out of his eyes. The door opened and Eugene looked out. "Yes, Captain?"

"Your Highness." The man bowed. "I'm afraid there might be a bit of delay before we reach Jacob's Isle. The storm is fierce, and we won't make our midnight deadline at the docks. Will you and the princess be comfortable enough in the cabin to stay the night?"

"We'll have to stay the night?"

The captain nodded, "Yes, your Highness. We won't reach Jacob's Isle until late morning if this weather keeps up and-," there was a growl of thunder outside, "-it doesn't appear to be ending any time soon."

Eugene nodded, murmuring, "Okay. We'll be fine with this room. Thank you, Captain."

"Yes sir."

The man left to return upper deck as Eugene closed the door. The prince consort turned to look at his wife, still seated at the candle-lit dinner table.

"Well, dear," Eugene rubbed the back of his neck, sighing, "it looks like we won't be at the island until morning."

Rapunzel looked at him, concluding, "We're going to stay onboard for the night."

"Yep. I suppose it's not quite the most romantic way to spend our vacation but—it'll only be until tomorrow. And when tomorrow comes, we'll wake up in paradise."

"So you say. Have you actually been to Jacob's Isle before?"

"No. But Prince Harold of Orae says it's great."

"Harold?" She said, evidently unimpressed.

"Yeah, Harold."

"Wasn't he the one who told you your ears were lopsided?"

Eugene half-shrugged, walking over to where his suitcase sat on the bed, "Yes but, out of the goodness of my heart, I forgave him."

"They actually are a _little_ lopsided."

He frowned at her. Rapunzel laughed, "I'm only joking."

"Don't joke about my ears, sweetheart. They're one of my best features." He unlatched the buckles on his suitcase. "Women have fallen in love with me over them."

"You know what," Rapunzel said, rising to her feet and coming over to him, "I can't remember what made me fall in love with you."

"Oh, I can tell you that." Eugene replied, his voice a low purr as he opened his suitcase. Then, suddenly, the purr stopped.

Rapunzel looked up from where she had been hugging him around his chest, "What's wrong?"

"Why is there a frog in my suitcase?"

"You didn't really think I would leave Pascal, did you?" She reached around him and allowed the chameleon to climb up her arm.

Eugene groaned and hit his head on the wall in front of him, "Rapunzel, when I said alone, I meant as in _you_ and _me_. Not you, me, and the-," he shuddered, muttering, "-frog."

"Well, Pascal's a chameleon, so no frogs here."

He turned around, grumbling, "You could leave the children, but you couldn't leave the frog?"

"Chameleon."

"Are we really going to get into this argument again?"

"Are we?" She asked, a dangerous edge to her voice that he recognized all too well.

He sighed, bowing his head in defeat, "No."

Rapunzel smiled, "Now I remember at least one thing that made me fall in love with you."

"What's that?"

"Well," she kissed him on the cheek and moved away to feed Pascal scraps from their dinner, "you give up too easily."

Eugene shook his head as another roll of thunder rang outside. "Wonder if the kids miss me."

"Why do you say that?" Rapunzel asked, giving Pascal her husband's fruit.

"It's obvious that _someone_ here didn't miss me enough to leave the frog at home." He actually managed to sound injured.

"Don't worry. Pascal has his own schedule and he won't bother us very much."

"What? Did you organize a chameleon spa treatment or something?"

"Nope. But I'll have a talk with him to make sure that we can spend some time, as you put it, _alone_."

Eugene grinned in spite of himself.

* * *

Rain pelted viciously on the roof of the palace. Lightning raked across the night sky, filling the world briefly with blinding whiteness. Thunder boomed, rattling the windows, while wind howled and shrieked ominously among the eaves of the magnificent building.

Inside the royal dining room, the long, ornate table had been pushed up against the wall along with most of the chairs. Taking their place was a large, baby blue tent facing the crackling flames in the fireplace. Underneath this tent sat Annabelle, Thomas, Ginger, Vladimir, Hook-hand, Big-nose, and Attila. They were eating dinner as the storm roared outside, listening to Hook-hand as he narrated his favorite story.

"And that," he finished proudly, "is how I got my hook."

All three children shoved away their half-eaten plates of spaghetti, their faces pale.

Big-nose whispered to Hook-hand, "Um, Albert… maybe you shouldn't tell any more of _those_ stories."

Hook-hand looked at them, noticing that Ginger's eyes were wide and that she had snuggled up to Vladimir.

"Oh—right. Sometimes I forget that they're not thugs."

"Maybe being a pirate isn't a good idea after all." Thomas said, hugging his knees as he gazed at his uncle's hook.

"You don't have to have a hook to be a pirate." Vladimir replied as he downed the rest of Ginger's spaghetti.

"Yeah," Hook-hand said, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a black piece of cloth, "all you really need is an eye-patch."

Thomas grabbed the offered eye-patch eagerly, slipping it over his recent haircut and slapping it onto his right eye. He beamed up at his uncles, who all nodded, rumbling in approval.

"What do you think, Annie?" Thomas asked, turning to his sister.

Annabelle smiled and reached out a hand to mess up his hair, "I think that you would make a fantastic pirate, Tom. Just as long as it's only _pretend_."

"Who said anything about pretending? I was being serious."

Attila laughed, his chuckles echoing about in his ever-present helmet. Ginger giggled at the sound, and then quickly stopped when a particularly loud thunderclap resonated overhead. Vladimir looked from the trembling girl to Big-nose.

"Ralph, how about you take out that ukulele of yours and play something?"

"What's a ukulele?" Ginger asked quietly.

Big-nose brought out his instrument case and procured his tiny, well-tuned ukulele. He strummed a few chords, answering, "It's a beautiful instrument which, while not as elegant as the piano," he nodded at Hook-hand, "or as exciting as the drums, still manages to provide comfort."

The thug began to play quietly, soft music drifting up into the vaulted ceiling of the dinning room and accompanying the growling storm outside. Hook-hand hummed along, clearly recognizing the composition from one of his numerous concerts.

Annabelle turned to Big-nose, asking, "What are you playing, Uncle Ralph?"

"It's a _love_ ballad." He answered dreamily.

"Yuck." Thomas muttered, sticking out his tongue.

Hook-hand smirked, "Just because you can't appreciate good music, Tom, doesn't mean we all can't."

"But you're not even married!" He protested, groaning as his uncle stood up and took Annabelle by the hands.

"I'm married to my work." Hook-hand replied, leading his adopted niece into a slow, swaying waltz. He gracefully twirled her once or twice, his large feet easily keeping up with the tempo.

Annabelle smiled, "This is kind-of fun."

"Me next!" Ginger exclaimed, a grin crossing her face.

Vladimir obligingly stood up, taking the tent with him due to his significant height.

Thomas groaned, "Great—now the center pole is leaving and our tent won't stay up."

"Oh come on, Tom," Big-nose said, strumming his ukulele into a faster tune, "I bet you know how to dance."

"Not really…"

"I'll show you." Hook-hand gave Annabelle to Attila and indicated the spot next to him.

Thomas reluctantly shuffled over, peeking at his uncle from underneath his eye-patch. Hook-hand proceeded to demonstrate the kingdom's latest dancing fad—the Macarena.

"First, you put your right arm out, palm down," Hook-hand extended his arm. "And then you stick out the other arm, palm down."

The boy obeyed, still looking uncertain about the whole thing.

Hook-hand continued, "Next, you flip your right arm palm up, and then you do the same to the other arm."

Thomas did so, frowning slightly.

"Then you grasp your elbow, and your other hand grasps the other elbow, and…"

A few minutes later all three children, Vladimir, Hook-hand, and Attila were dancing to the strums of Big-nose's ukulele. The pub thugs were pretty good dancers, having spent almost every Thursday night at the Snuggly Duckling's 'Dance, Dance, Fever!'

"Now you're getting it, Tom!" Hook-hand laughed, watching as the boy flailed around admirably.

"This has to be the strangest thing I've ever done." Thomas said, trying to keep up with his uncle.

A passing guard on his patrol happened to look into the dinning room at that point. He immediately stopped walking, his mouth dropping open at the sight of the royal children and the pub thugs dancing the Macarena. Then he quickly shook his head, mentally made an appointment with his doctor about those late night hallucinations, and continued striding down the hall.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author Note**: Thanks for all the reviews and for reading! :) hope you guys enjoy this next bit! Oh, and you should see some slight resemblance with this and the 'Family Life' passage I put up today!

_Soli Deo Gloria_

**Disclaimer**: Disney owns Tangled, its characters, and its story. Shakespeare owns _Romeo and Juliet_, even though I can't understand it :D

* * *

Hook-hand woke up to someone sitting on his stomach. He opened one eye, and saw Ginger waving at him enthusiastically.

He grinned slightly, asking, "Ginger… what are you doing sitting on top of me?"

She shrugged, "This is how I always wake Daddy up when he sleeps in."

"Okay. Listen," he eased himself up from the floor of the dinning room—they had all literally camped out there—and said, "When someone is sleeping, it's probably best not to sit on them. Because now, I've got a stomach ache."

Her eyes widened, and he saw her lower lip begin to quiver. That was a bad sign.

He shook his head hastily, "No—no I was only kidding about the stomach ache. Wait-," he looked around at the otherwise empty 'campsite'. "Where did everybody else go?"

"Oh, they're in the kitchens. Uncle Attila is showing them how to make muffins."

"And you don't want to make muffins?"

"I came to wake you up." She said as though the answer was obvious.

Hook-hand nodded and rose, groaning, to his feet. He offered his hook and the little girl grasped the dull curve. Then they both tottered off to the kitchens.

Upon entering the kitchens, Hook-hand saw at once that the cooking class had gotten out of control. Lined up at the counter was Attila, calmly explaining the finer arts of stirring; Annabelle, listening to his advice and using a slender spoon to mix her batter; Big-nose, who was trying to discover why his batter had turned into the consistency of cement; Thomas, whose enthusiasm for the task could be seen by how violently he was stirring, splattering himself and the two thugs on either side of him; and finally Vladimir, who had so far succeeded in shattering twelve eggs each time he picked one up and was getting so frustrated his face had turned red.

Ginger walked over to Vladimir and clambered onto the stool beside him. She patiently held out her hand. The giant thug sighed and gave her the egg, watching in dejection as she easily cracked it open over the bowl.

"I just can't do it," he mumbled unhappily. "My fingers are too big."

"I'll crack them for you," Ginger replied, taking another egg from the carton, "it's my favorite part."

Vladimir nodded as a sticky substance flopped out from Thomas's bowl and onto his shoulder.

"Tom," Big-nose said, wiping some batter off his face, "can you please keep your muffin-mix in the bowl?"

Thomas continued to stir vigorously, replying, "But Attila said to _stir_! So I'm _stirring_!"

Hook-hand dodged a flying lump of dough, wincing as it struck the wall behind him. He saw Attila making his way over towards Thomas in an effort to control the situation. That might not turn out well. Attila tended to take cooking _very_ seriously and Thomas… well he did not think Thomas ever took _anything_ seriously.

"Thomas, my instructions were to stir slowly." Attila said, sounding slightly annoyed.

"But if I go fast we'll get it done faster! And then we can eat sooner!"

"Yes, but then you lose half the mix in the process."

"So what?"

"Well, you just won't get any muffins to eat for breakfast."

Thomas shrugged, "I'll just steal some of Annie's."

Annabelle looked up from where she had been pouring her batter into a muffin pan. She glared at him, "Not a chance, pirate-boy."

Hook-hand smirked, "I think she really means it, Tom. There's no way you'll get one of her muffins."

"Well I'll just get-," the boy looked over at Big-nose, who was still trying to extricate his spoon from the greyish soup that was his batter.

"Exactly." Attila said over Big-nose's groans of exertion.

* * *

Some time later, after eating Annabelle and Vladimir's muffins for breakfast—Thomas eventually got one—the royal children had tutoring lessons. As a way to encourage their nieces and nephew in learning, the uncles decided to sit in on each lesson. This turned out to be a bad idea.

Example one: Ginger's lesson.

"Princess Ginger, can you please stop giggling and try to pay attention?"

The little girl looked away from where Vladimir had been entertaining her by making faces. She nodded, and then immediately turned back to Vladimir. Her tutor sighed. She had no clue why she was trying to teach a five year-old about grammar. Kids that young did not care a wit about words—nor did they care about math, history, or any of the other subjects. She wondered why the princess had insisted on all her children to start learning at the age of five. It had been at least three months into her schooling and Ginger had probably not learned a single thing.

The girl was too flighty, too imaginative, too excited to really focus on schoolwork. She could remember asking her about something in lessons, but instead of answering the question, Ginger began to tell her a story about unicorns. How on earth were unicorns put into the girl's head? She knew for certain that there was no unicorn-related literature in the textbooks. Today, just like every school day of the week, seemed to be going the same way. Ginger was hardly looking up at the chalkboard, she was laughing at some unknown joke, and she had burst into song once or twice already.

Not that the giant lummox nearly crushing the extra chair was going to be any help.

The tutor sighed again, and wondered if her husband, Reynolds, was doing any better with the prince.

He wasn't.

Example two: Thomas's lesson.

"…now toward the end of the thirteenth century, King Reginald and the Duke of Decath put aside their differences and forged an undefeatable alliance. But the most important aspect of this alliance was the treaty signed to support it. The treaty gave King Reginald power over the lower plains of Decath and eventually his Majesty used this to his advantage for trading various…"

Thomas idly rolled his pencil across his desk, wishing to be anywhere but here. Tutor Reynolds, a skinny man with bandy-legs and a droning voice, was jabbing at a map on the wall. Even the way he prodded at the chart reminded Thomas more of a clumsy poke rather than a skillful sword thrust. He was just so _boring_.

"You were right about him." Hook-hand murmured, sitting next to Thomas at the ancient desk the boy's grandfather had learned on.

Thomas lay his chin moodily on the desk, responding, "For some reason this is supposed to help me later in life."

"I don't know what learning about a bunch of dead guys is going to do for you, kid."

"Make me a better 'king'. Or at least that's what Mom says. But I don't want to be a king—I want to be Flynn Rider."

The tutor glanced at them sternly, muttering, "I _can_ hear you, Thomas."

Hook-hand grinned and then, when Reynolds had turned back to the map, he reached under the desk and unstrapped Thomas's emergency slingshot.

"Time to make history more fun." His uncle said, even as Thomas searched his pockets for ammo.

Example three: Annabelle's lesson.

Attila was still cleaning up the kitchen from breakfast, leaving Big-nose to accompany the eldest royal child for her literature lesson.

Tutor Perry sat politely up at his desk in the front of the room, twiddling his thumbs and absently gazing at the ceiling. Big-nose leaned over to Annabelle.

"Um—when is he going to start teaching?"

Annabelle already began scribbling away in her journal as she replied, "He needs the book to begin class. Usually the royal librarian brings it in."

"Oh." Big-nose frowned, returning back into a sitting-up position. He scratched at his rather large snout, wondering if this would be as quiet and boring as Thomas said it was. Then, the door opened and the assistant librarian walked in, hefting a large volume in both arms.

"I've got the book, sir." Stanley announced, grinning as he set it down onto Perry's desk.

Annabelle frowned, "Stan?"

"Hi Annie," he nodded. "Bet you weren't expecting to see me this early."

"No, I wasn't. What are you-?"

"Isaacs, please stay—I'll only need the book for one reading and then you can take it back." Perry said, marching over to the lectern and propping the enormous volume open. Stanley complied and took a seat next to the wall.

"Today, Princess Annabelle, we will learn about Shakespeare's _Romeo and Juliet_." Perry announced imperiously.

Big-nose's mouth dropped open, and he exclaimed, "That's one of my favorite stories!"

"Er—Uncle Ralph-." Before Annabelle could say much more, the thug had gone to the front of the room and began to recite before the annoyed Perry and amused Stanley.

Big-nose fell onto his knees before Annabelle, holding out his hands, as he gasped dramatically, "'But, soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!'"

"Uncle Ralph-."

The thug turned away, acting like he was fainting while in a squeaky female voice he responded, "'O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name; Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, and I'll no longer be a Capulet.'"

Perry frowned, pleading, "Sir, please we'll get to that in a mo-."

"'O calm, dishonourable, vile submission!'" Big-nose withdrew his sword and waved it at the grinning Stanley, demanding, "'Tybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk?'"

The librarian's assistant rose to his feet, responding easily, "'What wouldst thou have with me?'"

Big-nose retorted, "'Good King of Cats, nothing but one of your nine lives; that I mean to make bold withal, and as you shall use me hereafter, drybeat the rest of the eight. Will you pluck your sword out of his pitcher by the ears? Make haste, lest mine be about your ears ere it be out!'"

Annabelle let out a low groan, using her journal to cover her face as her uncle and Stanley continued to exchange quotes for the rest of the class period.

* * *

The afternoon wore on, and eventually the rest of the Snuggly Duckling gang stopped by the palace for a visit. All twenty or so thugs stood in the entrance hall, listening as Hook-hand marched up and down, giving instructions.

"Apparently," Hook-hand said, sighing, "all the tutors have given up on schoolwork for the week. 'Too many distractions' they said."

"And those bruises on Reynolds's neck." Tor muttered.

"I heard that." Hook-hand said.

Vladimir nodded, "Well, we don't want their parents to come back and think their kids have been lazy all week so—we need to teach them."

Big-nose smiled broadly, "Yeah! After all, we could teach them a lot of valuable lessons! Stuff they really need to know."

"And Attila's already taught them how to cook… kind-of." Hook-hand said, musing on the prospect.

"That's true!" Big-nose replied, glancing at the helmeted cook.

So it was agreed. They would take over their nieces' and nephew's schooling for the next day.

This also turned out to be a bad idea.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author Note**: Howdy folks! :D here's another chapter about them kids and their uncles :) thanks for reading and for the reviews, you guys are awesome! :D hope you enjoy it! :D

_Soli Deo Gloria_

**Disclaimer**: Disney owns Tangled, its characters, and its story

* * *

"Next, I want you to turn your vases a quarter inch to the right." Gunther announced in his deep voice as he strode down the row of tables.

There were three tables in all, and at each table stood a bemused royal child and one semi-helpful pub thug. Each table had an identical dark-forest polish, but the vases upon them were completely different. Annabelle had a bright red, slender vase with coconuts and parakeets patterned all over it. Ginger's vase was rather large and round with ivy vines decorating the sides. Thomas had a vase that was not a vase at all, but looked remarkably familiar. Ruefully, he turned the rather suspicious-looking orange flower-printed pot.

"I said to the right, not the left." The interior-decorating thug remarked, glancing back to Thomas.

The prince leaned over to Hook-hand, whispering, "What exactly are we supposed to be learning now?"

Hook-hand shrugged, "I think they call it fun-sway."

"It's Feng Shui!" Gunther retorted, his head snapping back so he could frown at them.

"Uncle Gunther," Annabelle said, carefully moving her vase forward, "do people really do this?"

He smiled, "Yes, Annabelle, they do. It is a wonderful achievement of interior design and-," he shot a glare at Hook-hand and Thomas, "-it should _not_ be scorned by others."

"We're not scorning it, Gunther—we're just trying to figure out what we're doing." Hook-hand replied.

"We're learning how to move pots, Uncle Al!" Ginger said, scooting her vase dangerously close to the edge of the table. Vladimir, however, managed to catch the urn before it fell… and then he promptly knocked over the table instead.

Gunther decided it would be better if another uncle took over the lessons for that day, and ushered the children out to the gardens to learn floristry from Tor.

* * *

Tor rubbed his chin thoughtfully, considering the bouquet Ginger was holding out to him. He picked out one of the flowers, took a bite out of it, and chewed. Finally he shook his head and muttered, "Needs more petunias."

The little girl groaned, "Aw Uncle Tor—can't you just smell the flowers instead of eating them?"

"Smelling flowers is overrated. If I use my tongue I get so much more out of the experience. Now run along, Ginger."

Ginger nodded and went back down into the flowerbeds, uprooting several of the palace gardeners' most prized blossoms and thrusting them into her fist. Vladimir followed her, reaching up to pull down flowers from the tallest rose bushes and stripping off the thorns before handing them to her. Thomas, meanwhile, was still lugging around the orange pot and trying to figure out what to stuff it with. He settled for dirt, grass, frogs, crickets, worms, as well as a tortoise that had been sunning itself by the pond. Big-nose managed to rescue the tortoise in time, citing that it probably was not what Tor had asked for.

Annabelle, with both Hook-hand and Attila jogging behind her, had organized a fairly decent garland of flowers without overstepping the boundaries placed around the garden. She smiled happily and used Attila's spare potholder to wrap around her bouquet. Then she proudly presented it before Tor, the florist, for his expert inspection.

To her immense consternation, Tor selected a delicate lily and stuck it into his mouth. After a couple of chomps, the thug swallowed and replied, "Less flowers, more flavor."

"Uncle Tor, I worked my hardest on that!" Annabelle protested, holding up her rejected bouquet.

"Sorry, Annie dear. But I know what I like and it isn't that." Tor folded his arms, turning away from his niece's flowers.

"What about mine, Uncle Tor?"

They both glanced around to see Thomas dragging his pot through the manicured grass, leaving a muddy trench behind him. The short vessel was crammed to the brim with mounds of grassy mud, squirming earthworms, maggots, a few feebly chirruping crickets, and several mushrooms. The boy toting the pot was not much better, for he had utterly sullied himself in the process. But he had a pleased expression on his face as he plopped the pot down in front of Tor, spilling muck out onto the thug's boots.

Big-nose reached out a finger and lightly knocked a half-squashed carrot from behind Thomas's ear and into his floral arrangement.

Tor gazed down at the masterpiece before him, even as Annabelle jumped away from an escaping beetle. Slowly, a grin spread across his face and he grabbed Thomas up into a hug, laughing.

"You, dear boy, are an absolute _genius_!"

"Thanks, Uncle Tor." Thomas said, peeling himself away from the chuckling thug.

"Allow me to-," Tor chose an oddly shaped mushroom and popped it into his mouth. A look of complete satisfaction came upon him and he sniffed the air. "This is the most amazing shroom I've ever tasted. Where did you get it, Tom?"

The boy jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, "Oh, just by the pond."

Tor nodded, "Yes, yes, by—the—pond?" His face turned white.

"What's wrong?" Hook-hand asked in concern as Tor clutched at his stomach.

"That—that mushroom isn't good for the digestive system… I have to go be alone now."

"Sorry Uncle Tor!" Thomas winced, even as the thug raced to find the nearest outhouse.

"He'll be fine, Tom." Hook-hand glanced at Vladimir, sighing, "Who's next?"

The gigantic man checked his list, muttering, "We've got Fang—he does the little puppet shows. And you and Ralph wanted to do music later on. Oh, and Bruiser and Killer sew and knit—but I don't think involving pointy objects would do us much good."

"You're probably right. Send Ginger to the puppet shows and we'll take Tom and Annabelle in for music lessons. Then we'll do art and end the day there."

* * *

So it was decided that while Ginger and Vladimir sat in the corner, engrossed in Fang's puppet show, Hook-hand and Big-nose would take over the musical lessons of the two older children. Hook-hand had already been teaching Annabelle how to play the piano for years now, so it was not that surprising that the girl sat down and immediately began playing. Her fingers danced lightly across the keyboard, tapping out a strong, vibrant melody. Hook-hand sat on the other end of the piano bench, his eyes closing as he listened to the music.

Meanwhile, Big-nose was trying to expound on how to play the ukulele. He cradled the instrument in his large hands, plucking at the strings while tuning. Thomas, slightly less muddy than he had been, sat cross-legged on the floor. He sighed as Big-nose rambled on, wondering how long this lesson would take. After all, school is still _school_, and he wanted to go out and do something exciting.

"Now Tom, as you hold the instrument you have to make extra-specially sure that you don't hit it against anything. The ukulele is fragile, and one slight jarring could cause the entire thing to 'sproing'."

Thomas narrowed his eyes, "To what?"

"You know, 'sproing'." To demonstrate, Big-nose adjusted one of the chords on his instrument, letting out a loud sound that was clearly a 'sproing'.

The prince grinned slightly, "Can I try?"

"Well-," the thug considered the rather grubby, beaming boy. He nodded slowly, "Okay. But remember—be gentle. It's a delicate instrument."

Big-nose watched in apprehension as Thomas took the ukulele from him and began to strum energetically on the strings. What came out—if not 'sproing'—certainly bore a close resemblance to the noise. Big-nose winced.

Over at the piano, Hook-hand smiled as Annabelle completed a song.

"Very good, Annie. You've been improving wonderfully."

His niece glanced modestly down at the ivory keys, "Well… I've just been practicing. Actually, Stan—Stan has helped a bit."

Hook-hand frowned, "The boy from the library?"

"Yes sir. He's very good at the piano—I think he's probably better than I am."

"Well, we'll have to change that, won't we?" Hook-hand flicked his hand and hook over the keyboard, muttering, "No niece of mine will have some carrot-top runt show her up."

Annabelle rolled her eyes, "Uncle Albert, it's not like that."

He shook his head, agreeing, "No, no, of course it isn't. That's why your father told me to keep an eye on the lad."

"He told you what?"

Thomas, after some violent experimentation, had discovered that the ukulele could make a number of different noises. Most of them were of the 'sproing' family, but several others consisted of various 'eeal's, 'urnk's, and one reverberating 'twank'. The boy, his eyes alit with a dangerous fire, tramped around the room, emphasizing each stamp with a sharp protest from the ukulele. Just like his nephew, Big-nose had discovered something too. He had discovered that maybe Thomas was not the most musically inclined child out there.

"Um, Thomas, can I please see-."

"Hold on, Uncle Ralph—check out this one!" Thomas threw himself onto his knees, raising the ukulele into the air and scraping his fingertips across the chords.

Big-nose took the opportunity to seize his instrument and jerk it out of the boy's grasp. There were many feeble strums as the thug gingerly examined his the ukulele. Thomas, satisfied that music lessons were over, proceeded to make his way over to the piano with the goal to annoy his sister.

"I'm telling you, Uncle Albert, whatever Dad says—just ignore him."

Hook-hand slid his hand and hook skillfully across the keys, replying, "And I'm telling you, Annabelle, that your father gave me specific instructions."

"But Mom says that Dad's just being overly-suspicious and that I shouldn't listen to him." She moaned, unaware that her brother was approaching her from behind.

"Your mother said that?"

"Yes, she did."

Hook-hand pursed his lips, "Oh, that is a problem… I can't listen to both of them but—_Tom_!"

The boy groaned as his uncle neatly hooked him up by his collar and pulled him away from Annabelle. He tried to stuff a frog back into his pocket, but Hook-hand's glare made him resentfully toss the creature onto the floor.

Looking up from the traumatized frog, Hook-hand asked quietly, "What were you planning to do with your new friend, Tom?"

"Nothing." He mumbled.

"Really? Are you sure?"

Thomas's eyes wandered vaguely to the side—the exact expression he had seen his father portray upon being fussed at by his mother. Just then, Big-nose came over, complaining, "Albert, the boy has gone and broken my instrument!"

Before Hook-hand could respond, however, there came another yelp, a grunt, and the puppet-show ended abruptly. All four of them leaned over to see Vladimir dusting his hands off while Ginger sniffled. There were pained groans coming from underneath the collapsed puppeteer stand. Hook-hand raised an eyebrow, and the gigantic thug managed to look ashamed of himself.

Staring at his enormous feet, Vladimir muttered, "Fang wouldn't let the princess beat up the dragon… he made Ginger unhappy."

"Fang?" Hook-hand asked, grimacing.

"S'okay, Boss." A hand rose out of the wreckage to give the thumb's-up signal.

"So-," Thomas began casually, "-next is art, right?"

* * *

None of the pub thugs knew much about art. Well—Gunther claimed to, but no one would listen to him. And, well, she was just _so_ adorable…

"First thing's first," Ginger said, standing precariously on a stool, "you need to close your eyes and dream about what you want to paint."

Vladimir immediately shut his eyes, humming. Attila glanced at Annabelle, who was staring out the window, her mind wandering through their disastrous lessons. Hook-hand closed his eyes, and then opened one to find that Thomas had neglected to do so. Instead the boy had folded his arms and was gazing around aimlessly, clearly not interested in painting—or dreaming about it. Hook-hand sighed. That boy was _definitely_ his father's son.

"You know the hour will go by faster if you actually participate." He said softly.

Thomas shook his head, "I'm tired of schoolwork, Uncle Albert. I want to play pirates."

"We can play pirates tomorrow."

"Promise?"

Hook-hand nodded, "Yes, Tom. I promise. We'll have all the other guys come over again and you, dear boy, can be Captain."

He grinned, "Really?"

"Absolutely."

Thomas gazed at the jars of paint in front of him. Then he extended a thumb and dipped it carefully into a jar of black.

Hook-hand watched him, hoping against hope the boy would not start a paint war. But to his immense relief and amazement, Thomas began to scrawl his thumb across his paper. The boy stared intently at his work, focusing on tiny details his uncle could not see from where he was sitting. Finally, after ten minutes, Thomas sat back and smiled.

"What'd you make?" Hook-hand asked.

Thomas ripped off the paper from his easel and waved it before his uncle's eyes, announcing, "A treasure map."


	5. Chapter 5

**Author Note**: YAY! We're back with the uncles and kids! :D this was a pretty long chappie but I think it will work :D thanks for reading and reviewing, you guys are great! :D hope you enjoy it! :D :D :D

_Soli Deo Gloria_

**Disclaimer**: Disney owns Tangled, its characters, and its story

* * *

It was Wednesday, and Hook-hand was not sure he could make it through the rest of the week. Well, it was not that Sunday, Monday and Tuesday had been particularly bad per se. It was just that during the past night Thomas had woken him up twelve different times, Ginger had cried about the monster in her closet until Vladimir went with her to 'beat it up', and Annabelle had asked for a glass of water—then milk—then water again. Honestly, Hook-hand thought as he wearily pulled his boots on that morning, it was no wonder that their parents had taken off on 'state business'. They probably never got any sleep otherwise.

"Are you almost ready, Uncle Albert?" Thomas asked, poking his head around the door of the man's guest bedroom.

"Almost. We are eating breakfast first, right?"

"Breakfast?" The word was apparently foreign to the boy—the very same boy who had eaten five muffins not two days ago.

"Yes, breakfast. I need a good start to the day if I'm going to be wrestling around with the fiercest pirates on the ocean."

Thomas grinned, "Then you'd better eat a whole lot!"

"You're right about that, Tom." Hook-hand muttered, rising to his feet and following the sprinting boy down the hallway.

After a hasty breakfast, during which Thomas was hovering impatiently around him the entire time, Hook-hand, Vladimir, Big-nose, Attila, and the rest of the thugs plus the crown prince, all marched to the palace garden.

The world was full of blinding, warm morning sunshine. Birds whistled in the blue sky and tweeted from the beautifully cut topiary. Bees hummed near an enormous honey-suckle bush while water gurgled in the fountain set at the very center of the garden. The grass was green and fresh, sending a sharp, healthy scent of nature into the air. There were flowerbeds too, but the gardeners were tending to them due the amount of damage they had suffered yesterday at the hands of the royal children.

Hook-hand passed one gardener who actually seemed to be _crying_ over the smashed remains of a tulip. He winced. The prince consort and princess would probably be hearing about that one.

"Okay, Tom," the thug said as his fellows formed up into a line, "the way we are going to play pirates today is that you'll be captain for one team, and Reginald-," one of ruffians waved, "-will be captain of the other."

"Right." Thomas replied back, pulling out his eye-patch and snapping it onto his head.

Hook-hand went over to the fountain, beside which the other uncles had placed a number of buckets and sponges. He speared one sponge up with his hook and smirked, "So as to not _severely_ hurt each other, we're going to play water-wars. We'll have flags set at opposite ends of the garden, and the first team to find the enemies flag and get it safely back to their team base, wins."

Thomas grinned and punched the air, "This'll be _so_ awesome!"

"Now, Captain Tom Rider, choose your team."

As the crown prince proceeded to pick out thugs at random—none of them were really that different, they were all about the same hulking size—his sisters took a seat on a rise that would overlook the action. They had a small basket of medical supplies with them—white bandages that Ginger had decorated with pink unicorns. Annabelle had tried to convince Ginger that watching the pub thugs and their brother whack each other with wet sponges would be way more fun than joining in. Her little sister did not agree.

"Why can't we go in, Annie? Uncle Vlad said he'd keep me safe."

Annabelle sighed, "Because I would rather not have to explain to Mom and Dad why half of our uncles are in comas. Not to mention, Ginger, you're small and you could get lost."

"Then I'll scream real loud so you can find me again." Ginger suggested.

"I don't think so."

Suddenly, somewhere below them a whistle sounded. The game had begun.

Thomas dashed forward, waving his sponge and hollering out threats. Flanking him were Big-nose and Hook-hand, also brandishing sopping sponges and bellowing. They crashed into another group of thugs, and immediately sponges began to be flapped onto heads, arms, chests, as well as any other part they could reach. A ragged cry came from Vladimir smashing his sponge into Tor's jaw. Then, somewhere to Thomas's right, a yelp sounded when Gunther flipped his soaking weapon to land upon Hook-hand's head.

The crown prince dodged a flailing arm and whapped the backs of two thugs before disappearing into the crowd. In his head, he ran through the plan Hook-hand had told him. _He_ was to be the one who found the flag. His smaller stature and overall sneakiness would help him steal it quicker than blinking.

Suddenly, two fighting ruffians rolled past him, and Thomas stood by to watch their movement. Then he heard his uncle—he couldn't tell which one—shouting at him.

"Watch out, Tom!"

He ducked as three sponges flew in his direction. There was a triumphant laugh, and he saw that Derrick the inventor thug was cradling a mobile catapult in his arms.

"Run, Captain Rider! Run but you cannot escape!" He roared, loading up more ammo.

Thomas's eyes (even the one under his eye-patch) widened. He took off in the opposite direction, dodging as sponge after sponge hit the ground behind him. Once, he slipped and fell to the ground. Spitting out dirt and grass, the boy leapt up and continued running. He skidded around the corner of a large bush and found, to his horror, a group of opposing 'pirates' hunkering behind it.

They turned and in one voice yelled: "Get him!"

Thomas squeaked—not that he'd ever admit as such—and charged towards the topiary maze the gardeners had so thoughtfully cultivated in the garden. He ran into its depths, his feet slapping against the dirt path. Thomas knew the maze and its twists and turns. He knew where to go so he could lose the pile of thugs on his trail.

With the unerring skill he had inherited from his father, Thomas dove under a bush and emerged out into a winding lane. He ran right, left, right again, and then burst through a small rutted hole at the bottom of another bush. He was on the other end of the garden now, gazing up at the windowed walls of the palace. Several confused sounds came from the maze he had just escaped, and he knew that his ploy had worked. Grinning, Thomas headed towards the place he suspected the flag lay.

Meanwhile, out on the main playing field, havoc was breaking loose.

Hook-hand reeled to the side, whipping his sponge up to hit it against his fellow thug's nose. He bent down to avoid another blow, and instead rushed through the group of fighting men, searching for the prince. If he had not found him yet, though, Hook-hand could guess that the boy had already put the plan into action. Of course, the plan was really simply to get Thomas out of the way. Sometimes, in the middle of a fight—any kind of fight—the thugs tended to show their more violent tendencies. It would be far safer this way.

"Argh!" A shadow passed over him, and Hook-hand dodged out of the way as Killer suddenly smacked the ground where he had been.

"Sorry." Hook-hand apologized, even as he slapped his sponge on Killer's dazed head.

To his right, a furious roaring indicated that Vladimir had successfully dispatched one of their opponents. Another squelching noise behind him, however, revealed that the other side was gaining strength. Hook-hand groaned and swiped at Bruiser's back, leaving a wet streak across the thug's shirt. Bruiser turned around, his eyes narrowed.

He growled, "This was my best tunic, Boss."

"Oh—sorry about—hey!" Hook-hand ducked as Bruiser surged forward, waving his sponge as if it were a battleaxe.

Annabelle, sitting above the battlefield, sighed.

"I can't believe Mom and Dad trusted _them_ with taking care of us."

"Come on, Uncle Vlad! Sock him one!" Ginger yelled from beside her, jumping up and down and waving her tiny fists.

Her sister sighed, "_Ginger_, stop encouraging them to hurt each other."

"But we want Tom's team to win, right?"

"Sure."

"Well, Uncle Vlad is on Tom's team." Her eyes widened, "Duck Uncle Vlad! Uncle Tor is coming from behind!"

Annabelle returned to her journal, writing neatly upon the page while shrieks and grunts echoed below and Ginger continued to shout. A minute later, a shadow fell across them. She looked up and raised her eyebrows.

"Stan?"

He grinned, "Hello, Annie. I came down to find out what all the noise was."

"Well, Tom managed to convince Uncle Albert to play 'pirates'. As you can see-," there was a wild snarl from the mass of thugs, "-that was probably a bad idea."

Stanley nodded, sunlight reflecting off his glasses. He cocked his head, studying the fighting crowd, "I don't see Tom anywhere down there."

Annabelle shrugged, "He's probably been sent off to find the flag of the opposing team. Don't you have work to do?"

"I asked for an early lunch break." Big-nose hurled two thugs to the ground, to Ginger's exultant cheering. "Hey, do you think I could join in?"

The girl frowned, "What? You mean—_why_?"

He smiled, "Looks like fun."

"But Stan they're-." she winced as her uncles continued to bellow and throw punches, "-_thugs_... They could seriously hurt you."

Stanley shook his head, "Not if I run fast."

Then a faint screaming made them look up. At the far end of the garden was a dust cloud—a literal cloud of dust moving across the green grass. Gardeners were sprinting out of its wake, hats askew and screeching in terror as the cloud drew closer. Then, the cloud began to break up, allowing the viewers, and the majority of the pub thugs on the field, to see what was causing this sight.

Thomas, his hair standing on end and his eyes wide as saucers, was running, full speed, a red flag grasped in his hand. He was yelling the entire time he ran, for chasing after him was a throng of thugs and ruffians all waving dripping sponges and shouting. He had gotten the flag—and now the defending team was trying to get it back.

The collision between the running thugs, the fighting thugs, and some unfortunate gardeners caught in the middle was monumental. The crash was said to have been heard down at the docks of the city.

Annabelle peaked out from behind her fingers, "Is it safe to look? Are they still alive?"

Stanley laughed, "Yeah—but only barely."

On the field below, the fighting had resumed. Thomas was racing through legs and out of the reach of his opponents, searching for Hook-hand. He dodged an incoming thug, was whacked on the head by a sponge, rolled into a crouch, and leapt up to renew his search. Suddenly, a heavy something landed on his legs, forcing him to fall to the ground and eat earth. Then there was yet another somebody added to the pressure on him, and Thomas was unable to move a muscle.

"They'll crush him!" Annabelle exclaimed, trying to see through the mess of brawling thugs.

The librarian assistant tensed and removed his glasses, "Keep track of these, please. I'll go in and get him."

She took his glasses, protesting, "But Stan-."

He was already marching towards the fight, rolling up his sleeves. Beside Annabelle, Ginger frowned, "How come he gets to go?"

"I—I don't know…"

Hook-hand darted through his fellows, roaring, "Tom! Thomas!"

"Uncle Albert!"

The thug turned and spotted Thomas's head sticking out from under a pile of his comrades. He ran forward, shoving aside limbs and bodies so as to get to his nephew. Plunging his good hand into the mound, Hook-hand withdrew the boy. To his uttermost shock, he saw that Thomas was beaming up at him.

"Got the flag, Uncle Albert!" Thomas said cheerfully, waving the red cloth.

"Oh—good. Good." He breathed a sigh of relief. What Rapunzel would do to them if her boy had gotten hurt, he did not want to think.

"Hey!" The both turned to see a rather battered Tor pointing at them. "Tom's got the flag! Get him!"

"Get behind me, Tom!" Hook-hand raised his sponge as Thomas fumbled with his slingshot. Without looking down, his uncle pushed him back and launched himself at the oncoming thugs.

Hook-hand fought valiantly, his sponge swinging right and his hook—tipped by another sponge—swinging left. He pounded a tattoo on Tor's head, chucked Gunther under the jaw, flipped Archimedes onto the dirt, and almost managed to escape without a single scratch. Then, of course, Fester (yes, as in _Uncle_ Fester) rammed his sponge straight between Hook-hand's eyes.

Hook-hand toppled backward, and Thomas hurried forward to his side.

"Uncle Albert? Are you all right?"

He opened an eye, muttering weakly, "Come closer."

The prince moved nearer, the shouts and fighting around him becoming a mere buzz in his ears.

"Closer."

Thomas moved even closer.

Hook-hand gave a great sigh, "Avenge me, my Captain, for my heroic sacrifice."

Thomas gaped at him, hardly daring to breathe.

The thug handed him a wet sponge, "Go bash some heads, kid."

Thomas grinned.

Meanwhile, Annabelle stood, anxiously scanning the crowd of thugs. What had happened? What was going on? Why on earth did she care this much?

"Well, Tom's a no-brainer. But as for Stan…" She shook her head, muttering to herself.

Her sister asked, "Annie, can't I-?"

"No, Ginger."

"But you let Stan-."

Annabelle groaned and fiddled with the glasses in her hand, muttering, "I didn't let him—he went on his own."

"Tom-."

"Ginger, be _quiet_."

There was silence beside her—a silence that sounded as if someone was sulking. Annabelle sighed and turned away from nervously watching.

"Listen, Ginger, I didn't mean-." She stopped talking, gazing at empty space.

Where had-? Oh no. No—not _her_ too!

The girl turned and ran towards the fighting thugs, screaming, "STOP THE FIGHT!"

Everyone froze, some mid-punch, some mid-kick, some, who were flying through the air, landed painfully onto the ground, and others—the unlucky ones—continued to smack each other.

Annabelle, glaring, ran up to one of these men, seized him by the collar and hissed, "Where-is-my-_sister_?"

The thug gulped, "I—I…"

"Found her, Annie!" Vladimir stomped out from among his soaking wet, bruised and scraped fellows. He was holding Ginger up in one large hand, and the little girl was trying to hide a sponge behind her back. She smiled guiltily.

"Hi, Annie…"

"Which one of you let her come in? _Hmmm_?" Annabelle demanded, her eyes blazing. "Which one of you saw her and didn't bother trying to stop the fight? _Hmmm_?"

The huge pub thugs stared at their feet, shuffling uneasily.

"Uncle Albert! Tom!"

There was a hurried noise and both Hook-hand and the prince were ejected from the mass of men. Hook-hand, immediately sensing danger, shoved Thomas behind him and faced Annabelle. He tried to smooth down his mustache—a hard feat to do since it had become ingrained with dirt and water—and grinned.

"Hello, Annabelle. I hope you were enjoying the-."

She shook her head furiously, announcing, "That's it! This game is over! Ginger could have gotten hurt, Thomas could have gotten hurt—all of you _are_ hurt and—wait… what happened to Stan?"

"Howdy." The librarian's assistant pushed his way through the thugs, looking worse for the wear. His red hair was sticking up on end and he was mopping at a bloody streak across his arm.

Annabelle's eyes widened, "Stan—_is_ hurt!" She turned to glare accusatorily at her uncle.

Hook-hand shrugged, "Wasn't me."

There were several other echoes of this 'wasn't me' that rippled through her uncles.

Annabelle pointed to the palace doors, "March! We are going to the infirmary to get all of you cleaned up and then we're going to have lunch!"

A few of the pub thugs muttered resentfully.

"_NOW_!"

They turned and walked, hastily, to the doors. Ginger rode on Vladimir's helmet and Thomas, after persuading Hook-hand, had taken a seat on his uncle's shoulders. Annabelle sighed wearily.

"Hey, Annie—do you still have my glasses?"

"What? Oh, sorry." She gave Stan his glasses, smiling, "You know, I've never noticed that you have blue eyes. They are a lot like Papa's."

"Yeah, I get them from my Mum. Funny how that works out. So, do you think you can help me with-?" He pointed at the gash on his arm, wincing.

"Yes, of course. We should probably sit down."

They both took a seat on the grass, and Annabelle handed him a wet sponge.

"Clean away the blood with that."

Stan did as instructed, watching as she rummaged through her basket of supplies.

"Normally I would be able to take care of all my uncles but there _are_ a lot of them and I really only have bandages in here." She carefully laid two bandages across his scratch.

He smirked, "Unicorns?"

"That was Ginger's idea. Thanks for going in after Tom, by the way."

"Oh, I'd do it any day."

Annabelle smirked, "You'd probably be more beaten up than you are if you did. Who hurt you, anyway?"

"Oh—I just kind-of got knocked into a rose bush. Speaking of which-," he reached in his vest pocket and withdrew a small rose, "-here you go."

She took the flower, smiling slightly, "Thanks, Stan."

"You are very welcome." He got to his feet and bowed. "Your Highness."

"You goober."

Stan grinned, "A term of endearment I never get tired of hearing. See you later, Annie." She watched him leave and twirled the rose he had given her between her fingers. It was quite a pretty rose—young and the color of lavender. She smiled. Then she realized she should probably get inside and make sure the pub thugs were not annoying the court doctor _too_ badly.

* * *

After much groaning, whimpering, and general complaining, each thug was treated to a thorough medical review by the court doctor. Then, bandaged and limping, the men made their way to the dinning hall to eat lunch.

It was a quiet affair—punctuated only by snorts of pain as each movement stretched a sore muscle. Upon finishing, the thugs decided that the safest activity to do now would be playing board and card games with the royal children. This turned out to be a false hope.

Thomas, who apparently had not been harmed at all during the water war, was very enthusiastic in what he liked to call 'Go Fishing Punch'. The 'punch' added at the end was an invention of the boy himself, and was to be implemented whenever the player did not get a card upon asking. Then the player would punch his opponent on the arm. It was a fun game—Thomas said eagerly—and so his uncles consented to play.

It really was not much fun.

"Why are we doing this again?" Tor asked, leaning over to talk to Bruiser.

He shrugged, "Parents are on 'state business'."

"But the prince told me he was packing his swimming trunks and sunscreen."

"Weirdest 'state business' I ever heard of."

Just then, there was a triumphant shout and Thomas began to pummel an unfortunate Big-nose in the arm.

His uncle winced and then set a hand on the boy's forehead, gently shoving him away. "You know, Tom, I think it's getting a bit late."

The prince frowned, "What? It's only two in the afternoon!"

"Yes, it _is_, isn't it? Well, that's generally when we-," he gestured at himself and all his fellows, "-like to take our afternoon naps. Right, guys?"

The thugs nodded quickly, mumbling, "Yeah—naps. We like 'em."

"So as you can see, Tom, we need to have a bit of a lie-down, if that's okay with you."

"But Uncle Ralph!"

Big-nose shook his head, "Nope."

Hook-hand stood up from where he had been playing chess—and losing spectacularly—with Ginger. "I'll take care of him, Ralph."

"What are you going to do?"

Hook-hand shrugged, "I'll think of something."

This 'something' consisted of allowing Thomas to rummage through his luggage and the closet of the guest room Hook-hand was staying in. Hook-hand sat down on the bed, watching as the boy pulled out object after object out of the large trunk he had brought.

"What's this, Uncle Albert?"

"A spatula—I think it's Attila's."

"What about this?"

"The sheet music from my last concert."

Thomas tossed the papers behind him and, groaning slightly, his uncle stooped to carefully pick them up. He glanced at the next item Thomas was brandishing at him.

"Polish for my hook."

"This?"

"A scarf I got in Orae."

Another article was thrust at him.

"My favorite type of chocolates. My last visit to Delvin got me that."

Thomas looked at the box speculatively, "Can I have one?"

"No. They are—er—reserved for thugs only."

"What about this?"

"A harmonica. You can have it."

"Score!" Thomas stuffed the silver instrument into his front pocket and dove back into the wide chest.

Hook-hand shook his head and looked longingly at the tidily arranged bedspread. How he would love to take a nap right about now.

"Uncle Albert?" A faint grunt of exertion came from behind him, and Thomas tottered into view, carrying something wide and flat.

"Yes, Tom?"

"What's this?" He turned around whatever he was holding, propping his elbows on the top to gaze down at it.

He had found a large, golden-framed portrait. To Hook-hand's horror, he saw that it was of himself, dressed in the red Mozart suit complete with white powdered wig and stern expression.

"That," Hook-hand said delicately as he caught Thomas by the collar on his hook, "is private."

He walked over to the door of his room and let Thomas down in the hall.

"But I thought you said we were going to have fun this week?" The boy moaned.

"We are, and we have been. But Tom, it's three o'clock, everyone else is taking their after-lunch nap, and you're still awake. Just—go do something with yourself for an hour or so."

Thomas sighed, "Fine."

Hook-hand nodded at the departing boy and closed the door. Then he turned to lie down on his bed and gaze wearily at the ceiling. Gradually, his eyes began to close, and he drifted off into sleep.

Some time later, there was a knock at the door.

"Come in."

One of the thugs crept into the room, muttering, "Um, Hook-hand?"

"What is it now?"

"The crown prince tried to fly."

* * *

Suddenly, Rapunzel sat up and said, "Something happened."

Eugene rolled over from where he had been lounging on the sun-warmed sand. He heard the ocean waves crashing behind them, and he knocked some water out of his ear.

"Come again?"

"Eugene—something's happened at home." His wife glanced at him, her hands already rolling up the blanket she had been sitting on.

He frowned, "What? How do you know that?"

She shook her head, murmuring, "I just do. Something—something bad happened to one of the kids. I can feel it."

"Rapunzel, you said that yesterday, too."

"Well, maybe something even worse happened. Come on, Eugene, we should go pack."

"Wait-," he grabbed her hand as she stood up to leave. She looked down at him, meeting his brown eyes, "Are you absolutely positive? I mean—are you a hundred percent sure?"

Rapunzel sighed, turning away and slumping back onto the sand next to him.

"No."

Eugene sat up and set an arm around her shoulders, whispering into her ear, "Then why do you want to leave?"

His wife shrugged, "I don't know. I'm just worried, I guess."

He nodded, "Okay. Let's go pack."

"Are you serious?"

Eugene nodded again, replying, "Yes. I told you I was when we were riding in the carriage. If you want to go back to Corona then baby, we are going back to Corona."

"No, Eugene—I'm sorry. It's okay. We can stay here." Rapunzel smiled at him, leaning her head against his shoulder.

He looked at her suspiciously, "Was that a test?"

"No. But the kids are probably fine."

"You sure?"

"Yes, dear, I'm sure. By the way, you were right when you said you knew nothing about color. That water is anything but aquamarine."

"Well maybe you can start my education, _Madam_." Eugene said, smirking.

"Nah. I'll just get Pascal to teach you."

He pouted, "_Rapunzel_."

She laughed and slid her arms around his neck, murmuring in a low voice, "Show me how uncatchable you are, Flynn Rider."

"Oh, I am _very_ uncatchable."

"Prove it." Rapunzel replied, kissing him passionately.

Eugene decided to not prove it, and instead picked up his wife and headed back towards their private bungalow.

* * *

"You know, that doctor was really nice." Thomas said, smiling as his eyes drooped from the drugs the court physician had given him.

"Why—_why_ did you try to fly?" Hook-hand groaned, his face in his hand.

He shrugged, mumbling, "You told me to do something with myself."

His uncle demanded, "How does that constitute trying to fly? You are a human, not some ostrich."

Big-nose leaned over, "Um, Albert, ostriches don't fly."

"You're not helping, Ralph. Well, at least it's only a small fracture."

"But the doc said he'd be in a cast for several weeks." Big-nose pointed out.

"I know! Don't remind me."

"Tom!" Annabelle suddenly raced into the infirmary, her sister following after her with Vladimir jogging behind them.

"Hi An—ow! Stop—let go!" Thomas struggled as his sister hugged him tightly.

"What happened? What did you guys do? Oh, Tom, are you all right?" She took him by his shoulders, gazing at his oddly dilated eyes.

"I'm fine, Annie." He frowned. "Why do you have stars floating around your head?"

Annabelle glanced at Hook-hand, fearful that her brother had lost his mind even more than she already gave him credit for.

"Doc gave him some medicine that may or may not cause hallucinations."

"What happened to his arm?"

Big-nose grasped at the short, scrubby hair on the back of his head, muttering, "Um—well, see your brother kind-of jumped off one of the ledges on the outside windows… It didn't quite go according to plan. But he won't suffer too much and should heal up in no time!" He grinned weakly, trying to make the best out of the situation.

"Tom, can I draw on your cast?" Ginger asked, looking eagerly at her brother's arm.

He shook his head, "No unicorns!"

"But what if they're _boy_ unicorns?"

Thomas shook his head again and tried to escape his sister's probing fingers, protesting, "No. Gin' go away!"

"Ginger, maybe you should leave him alone for a little bit." With one hand, Vladimir easily lifted Ginger up and allowed her to clamber up onto his shoulder.

Annabelle took a deep breath, "All right. Can tomorrow please be a _normal_ day?"

Hook-hand nodded, "We can certainly try."

"Rapunzel's going to kill us." Big-nose sighed.

"Can it, Ralph."


	6. Chapter 6

**Author Note**: Okay, so here we are again, back at the uncles :D I've missed them a bit :D but I'm only planning one more after this so then I'll be able to focus squarely on Family Life and the King and Queen's story... and then another one... :) but you'll find out about that later :D Anyhoo, there are some references in here, but I don't really want to tell you what they are for sake of surprise and humor :D thanks for waiting, reading, and reviewing! It's always cool to see what you all think! :D Hope you enjoy it! :D

_Soli Deo Gloria_

**Disclaimer**: Disney owns Tangled, its story, and its characters. The other part of the disclaimer is obvious... you'll get it if you watched a certain televised something a few weeks ago :)

* * *

The next day, Hook-hand, Vladimir, and Big-nose all agreed to hold to their promise and make it a normal day for Annabelle. Naturally, this did not go according to plan.

The first problem was the weather. What had been sunny blue skies yesterday was now turning into a cloudy grey morning. Bad weather meant no going outside. Not going outside—meant that they somehow had to find a way to entertain their nieces and nephew inside the palace without breaking something important. The second problem developed from Thomas's new cast. The boy was instructed by the court physician to remain stationary for the first few days to allow his bone to heal. Thomas was not a stationary boy.

Hook-hand came downstairs to find that his nephew was running around the dinning room table. Apparently it was for 'exercise'. And _apparently_, Attila had baked chocolate muffins for breakfast that morning, and neither Thomas nor Ginger handled chocolate well. It was on the list of 'dangerous food items' their parents had left for the thugs.

"_Why_ did you give them chocolate?" Hook-hand asked as, behind him, Thomas began swinging his bandaged arm—which was now in a sling—around in circles, carried around by its momentum.

Attila shrugged apologetically, "I forgot."

"You can't afford to forget! Our lives are in danger enough as it is with Tom's arm being broken—do you want Rapunzel to have yet another reason to skin us alive?"

"Now, I think she's a very rational person who would never-." Attila was interrupted by Annabelle's shriek as she walked into the room.

"Uncle Albert! Mom's going to kill you if you don't get Ginger down from the chandelier!"

"She's _where_?"

Hook-hand looked up as a small crayon fell onto his face. Ginger frowned, clinging to the brass curves of the chandelier.

"Can I please have that back, Uncle Al? I'm not done with my picture."

"How did she get up there?"

Annabelle shook her head, "I don't know. But you'd better get her down or Mom will be the least of your worries."

"Now, your father would never-."

"I'm not talking about him." She glared at her uncle, and he gulped nervously.

Vladimir delicately clambered onto the tabletop as Big-nose tried to get Thomas to stop swinging around.

"Tom, please—you'll knock someone out with that thing!" Big-nose leapt out of the way of the heavy cast.

"I-can't-stop-_swinging_!" Thomas yelled, laughing as he bumped into a chair.

Vladimir held up his hands, calling, "Just drop down, Ginger. I'll catch you."

"But I'm not done with my picture!" Ginger complained, gesturing at her half-finished turtle with an island on its back.

"Ginger-," the table creaked ominously under the thug's weight, "-_please_."

"Okay." She dropped, landing safely in Vladimir's giant hands.

Then the table—barely able to take Vladimir's mass—collapsed as soon as the little girl hit his hands. The crashing noise echoed about the room. Vladimir looked around guiltily, muttering, "Got her."

In the silence that followed, Thomas suddenly exclaimed, "Awesome! Now we get to break furniture too?"

Hook-hand shook his head firmly, "No! No we are not breaking anything else! Ralph, get Gunther in here to do something with this table. Vlad and I will take the kids down to do laundry."

"_Laundry_?" Thomas asked, affronted.

"Yes. Laundry. Nice—safe—full of soft piles of clothes for you to fall in and not break anything—laundry."

* * *

"I still don't understand why we're doing this." Thomas muttered, scrubbing a sheet in the hot, bubbly water of his wooden tub.

"We are doing this because you need something to do." His uncle replied, hooking up a piece of clothing and sniffing it.

"But why aren't the maids doing it instead?"

Hook-hand shrugged, "They wouldn't wash Vlad's socks."

"My feet are smelly." Vladimir said apologetically, plunging a hand into the water and splashing all over the floor of the laundry room.

Ginger smiled at him, "Oh, I don't think they're _that_ bad."

Thomas reached into his washtub and pulled out a sock as large as he was, wrinkling his nose, "That's because you aren't washing them."

"I told you to put a clothespin over your nose, Tom." Annabelle reminded him as she strung up clothes around the room.

"Wait—how come you're doing that in here? Aren't they supposed to go outside?" Big-nose frowned, carrying over a bucket of recently washed laundry.

"It's raining outside, Uncle Ralph. All we can do right now is to hang them up over tubs and hope they dry out." The girl pinned a sopping-wet shirt on the line that stretched from wall to wall. Soon several wet garments and bedclothes were suspended in the air, dripping noisily into the tubs set below them.

"Okay, so what are we going to do after this?" Thomas asked, shoving a wet hand down into his cast and scratching at his arm.

Hook-hand shrugged, "Something normal."

"But that's _boring_."

His uncle narrowed his eyes, "Didn't your father have a rule about using that word?"

Thomas did not answer, instead offering a weak grin of innocence. Hook-hand sighed.

"Very well. What would _you_ like to do, Tom?"

"Jousting."

Big-nose glanced over, "What?"

"You know—jousting. With the lances and-."

Annabelle shook her head, snapping, "No! You've already broken your arm, Tom, you are _not_ breaking anything else!"

Her brother glared at her, "Annie, I won't hurt-."

"No!"

"Um, you'd better do what she says, Tom." Hook-hand advised nervously. "She could be scarier than your mother."

Thomas shook his head firmly, "No way. _No one_ is scarier than Mom."

Vladimir stumped over, carrying a tub of soaking clothes. Every step he made sloshed more sudsy water over the side and onto the pavestones.

"Looks like we're going to have to mop up in here after we've finished." Hook-hand muttered as, humming happily, the giant thug began to hang up laundry with Ginger's assistance.

"There's an idea—how about we spend the day cleaning up the palace?" Big-nose suggested, grinning.

"What?" The prince groaned in dismay.

"No seriously, Tom-," Big-nose hurried over to him and set his arm about his shoulders, proclaiming dramatically, "-just imagine what your parents would say if we managed to make the entire palace spotless!"

Thomas stated plainly: "Dad would say we're crazy and Mom would tell him to shush."

"Well…" Big-nose frowned, at a lost for words. His eyes lit up again, however, and he said, "I bet you're not allowed to go to certain parts of the palace, right?"

Hook-hand frowned, "Ralph, what exactly are you-?"

"I can't go down to the basement, or the parlor, or the armory unless I have 'supervision'—whatever that means."

Big-nose beamed and gestured to himself and the other thugs, "Well, _we_ can supervise while we 'clean'. That way you'll be able to see the other parts of the palace you're normally not allowed to go to. And we'll get them cleaned up, too."

Annabelle walked over, protesting, "But Uncle Ralph, there's a very good reason why Tom's not allowed down in the armory. There are all kinds of weapons and-."

"_Please_, Annie, I've got more weapons on my belt than you have in that armory." Her uncle replied dismissively.

Hook-hand got to his feet, grunting, "I suppose—as long as we provide supervision—that it won't be too unsafe."

"Yeah!" Big-nose nodded smartly. "I mean, we're thugs for goodness sake! We can supervise like there's no tomorrow."

"I'm starting to think that there won't be…" Annabelle muttered as Thomas began to list more of the rooms he was not allowed to enter without supervision.

It was quite a long list.

* * *

"Blast! The stupid door is locked!" Big-nose muttered, rapping his knuckles against the wooden door.

"What?" Hook-hand asked, grunting in pain as he accidently scraped his elbow upon the rough stone wall. Unfortunately, the narrow corridor leading down to the armory was made for guards who were not thug-shaped. Thus it was that he and Big-nose were having difficulty in managing to cram into the hallway.

Big-nose sucked in his gut and turned around, "The door is locked, Albert. We won't be able to get in."

"You mean we came all the way down here for nothing?"

"No wait! Just-," Thomas gasped and squeezed his way past his uncles, "-hold on. I can take care of it!" Grinning, he arrived at the door and reached into his back pocket. He pulled out several things, placing them into Big-nose's hand.

Surprisingly, the boy's pocket could hold various objects. Among them was his slingshot—his harmonica with a new dent in its side—his sister's bracelet he had stolen and neglected to return—as well as a few, interestingly-shaped rocks. There were also some bugs and a rather confused snail. Big-nose gently peeled the snail off of his large pinky finger, frowning as his nephew withdrew a set of slender metal picks.

"Where did you get those, Tom?"

Thomas skillfully slid the picks into the lock, answering, "Dad left his old thieving kit in his and Mom's room. Normally he doesn't forget, but I think Mom made him leave it behind this time."

Hook-hand frowned, "Can you open doors like that?"

"Yeah—Dad taught me. He only showed me once but I remember and I've practiced." There was a successful clicking sound, and Thomas grinned, "Ha!"

"Okay. But remember, we are here to clea-." Big-nose barely finished his sentence as the prince swung open the door and ran into the dark armory.

An unfortunate crashing noise met their ears, followed by a guilty "Oops…"

"Maybe we should've listened to Annabelle after all." Hook-hand muttered as they hastily entered the armory.

* * *

Meanwhile, above the basement cellars where the armory was kept, Annabelle and Ginger were dusting the parlor with the help of Vladimir and Attila. Well—'help' might be a misleading term, considering that Vladimir had nearly knocked over a single vase twelve times and Attila left a trail of flour everywhere he walked.

"Uncle Attila-," Ginger pouted, brushing more flour off the counter and into her dustpan, "-stop snowing!"

"Oh. I'm sorry, Ginger." He rumbled, glancing around to see her dump a pile of flour into the rubbish bin they had placed in the middle of the room.

Annabelle carefully wiped down the mantelpiece, remarking, "At least we're doing something normal for once."

"I guess…" Her sister muttered, getting onto her hands and knees to follow Attila around the room, sweeping up the line of flour.

Unfortunately, Vladimir was straightening the sofa when Ginger crawled behind him. He hastily sidestepped the girl, tripped, and fell over the top of the sofa, his huge hand striking the side table that held the vase. There were a few, tense seconds as the vase wobbled dangerously on the edge of the table. Then it began to tip over.

"Catch it, Uncle Vlad!" Annabelle shouted, darting forward as her uncle held out his hands.

Thankfully, the vessel fell safely into his palms. Annabelle took the vase from him and set it back onto its table, sighing in relief. Vladimir noisily got up from the couch and pushed it back into position, whistling apologetically.

"So," Attila turned around, his movement causing a circle of flour to appear about him. "What are we going to do after this?"

"Wait for the storm to go away, I suppose." Annabelle muttered, watching her little sister scooting around on the floor and sweeping up the flour.

"We could polish the hallway floor, I suppose…" Her uncle suggested as Vladimir began to dust the coffee table.

Ginger shook her head and stood up, glaring at him, "Not until you've been dusted off, Uncle Attila."

"Oh—sorry. I suppose we'd better do this away from the carpet." Attila went out into the hallway where, upon the marble floor, he allowed his niece to smack the flour off him with her washcloth.

Annabelle sighed, watching as cloud after cloud puffed up around her uncle and sister. She did want a normal day. But it would be a boring normal day if they spent _all_ their time cleaning. Maybe they could make it fun, somehow?

She glanced at Vladimir, "Uncle Vlad, can you go get the polish bucket and mop from the royal broom closet? I have an idea…"

Hook-hand and Big-nose emerged from the staircase, pushing Thomas wearily in front of them. The boy had a shiny bruise on his forehead from where he had face-planted into a suit of armor. Nonetheless, he was grinning broadly.

"Dad never let's me go down there. Thanks, Uncle Albert and Uncle Ralph!"

Hook-hand groaned, "You're welcome, Tom. Just don't tell your mother where you got that bruise…"

Suddenly, Ginger skated past in her socked feet upon the recently-polished marble floor. She turned skillfully around, calling: "Come on, Uncle Vlad! You can do it!"

"Vlad?" Big-nose looked up the hallway, "Oh dear…"

There was a loud tramping sound of a rather large someone running. And then, eyes narrowed in concentration, Vladimir slid along the floor in his last clean pair of enormous socks. Amazingly, the giant thug was quite graceful in his movements. He even made an elegant figure eight before sweeping up into a gentle stop.

Ginger grinned and slipped over to him, cheering, "Way to go, Uncle Vlad!"

She bumped into his stomach, grabbing his tunic to keep her balance on the smooth marble.

As Hook-hand, Big-nose, and Thomas gaped in astonishment at this strange sight, another voice shouted from the end of the entrance hall.

"Ready?"

"Come on Annie!" Ginger hollered, clambering onto Vladimir's back and grabbing hold of his helmet.

"_Wahoo_!" Annabelle zipped across the floor, hair flying behind her as she closed her eyes and raised her arms in the air. She skated quickly and effortlessly, laughing while she pirouetted and dropped into a deep curtsey.

"That was great!" Annabelle exclaimed, smiling as her younger sister applauded. "I haven't done that in forever."

"What happened to cleaning?" Big-nose demanded as he, Hook-hand, and Thomas all came out into the hallway.

Annabelle managed to look guilty as she replied, "Um, we dusted the parlor?"

"And we polished the floor. Look-," Ginger jumped off of Vladimir and landed into a smooth slide, "-you can skate on it!"

Hook-hand frowned, "But-."

"I want to try!" Thomas sat down and, using only one hand, began to peel his boots off his feet.

His older sister wrinkled her forehead, "Tom, why do you have a bruise on your face?"

"Ran into a suit of armor." He panted, straining to remove his boot.

"Ran into a-?"

Big-nose glared at the Vladimir, fussing, "Vlad, why are you allowing the kids to skate across the floor? Don't you know they could hurt themselves?"

"Hey," Vladimir shrugged, "you said 'clean', so we cleaned. Now we're having fun."

Thomas, having succeeded in removing his shoes, rose up and began to skate around the floor of the entrance hall. He grinned madly, moving his feet faster and faster while keeping his bandaged arm tight against his chest. The boy glided across the floor, disappearing and reappearing in the columns of grey light shining in from the long windows.

He threw back his head, howling, "Chim chiminey Chim chiminey Chim chim cher-ee! A sweep is as lucky as lucky can be! Chim chiminey Chim chiminey Chim chim cher-ooooo!"

At the last of the 'ooo's, Thomas kneeled down into a dramatic slide, howling like a wolf to the full moon.

Hook-hand sighed, "He really did hit his face hard on that breastplate, didn't he?"

Big-nose rubbed his chin, musing, "I wonder if Attila's finished making lunch yet. Not that we can eat it with the table busted…"

"Oh-," Vladimir grinned, "-Gunther actually came in and fixed it. It's amazing what he did."

Annabelle narrowed her eyes, "What did he do?"

"Words cannot describe it. You'll have to see for yourself."

* * *

Well, the table _was_ repaired. You could eat off of it. You could probably even enjoy a large feast without the smallest squeak of strain being emitted.

But the zebra stripes were a bit much.

"You're right about one thing, Uncle Vlad. Words cannot describe…" Annabelle muttered, her eyes wide as she took in the black and white diagonal streaks running across the surface of what had once been a beautiful, red mahogany table.

Ginger frowned, "What did he do to our table?"

"Um—fixed it?" Big-nose suggested.

"We have a zebra for a table!" Thomas announced for the third time, still shocked.

"_Great_. Now Rapunzel has even more of a reason to kill us…" Hook-hand groaned, tapping his hook moodily against the side of his head.

"Lunchtime!" Attila announced cheerfully, stumping into the room with a tray of grilled-cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. He stopped short, cocking his helmeted head. "Where did the safari theme come from?"

"Gunther." Hook-hand and Big-nose murmured together as Vladimir echoed them happily: "Good old Gunther!"

"Ah." Attila seemed uncertain what else to say, so he set the tray down onto the striped table and said, "Well, we have grilled-cheese sandwiches, tomato soup, um—I've got crackers back in the kitchens if you want and… and we'll eat, then?" He looked up hopefully to Annabelle.

She sighed, "Yes, we'll eat. Maybe by then the storm will be down and we can hang up the laundry."

"Maybe. Or maybe pigs will fly." Big-nose muttered miserably.

* * *

It turned out that while pigs did not fly, the sky cleared up around mid-afternoon and they could hang the laundry out to dry in the sun after all. Then, the day hours passed into nighttime as the world grew dark and mysteriously quiet.

"Okay, kids." Hook-hand said, standing up before his nieces and nephew as they were all grouped around the fireplace of the library. "We've organized a real treat for you tonight. Fang's going to do shadow puppetry—and he's the best in the business."

"Puppets? I thought we were going to wrestle…" Thomas muttered in disappointment.

Annabelle rolled her eyes, "Tom, how come everything you want to do ends up being something likely to get you hurt?"

"I won't get hurt!" He protested, watching as his younger sister continued to draw on loose papers spread across the floor. Thomas grinned slightly and reached over with his good arm, poking her. He did this for several seconds before Ginger retaliated by knocking him over.

Big-nose snapped his fingers, ordering: "Okay, okay settle down. The show's about to start."

Fang looked up from where he had been stringing a sheet across the wall. He frowned, "I haven't even got my stage set up yet, Ralph! Can't you wait for five seconds?"

The other thug indicated the small fight that was taking place under his chair, "These two need a distraction _now_."

"All right—I'm getting to it. Vlad, put more wood on the fire."

Vladimir obliged as Hook-hand and Big-nose carefully removed Thomas and Ginger away from each other's vicinity. Annabelle, lounging on the couch with a book in her hand, glanced up in mild interest when Fang trotted over to the fireplace to take a seat before the flames.

Fang held up his hands, trying a few practice passes to ensure that the fire was a good enough light source for his performance. Then he cracked his knuckles a few times and nodded to Big-nose.

"Begin the music, please."

The thug obliged, pulling out his ukulele and strumming out a slow, melodious song. Fang once more lifted up his hands, and his fingers began to dance…

There was a silence as all three royal children gaped at the canvass. There were camels, zebras, soldiers, farmers, hippos, rhinos, dinosaurs, dragons, peacocks, flamingos, swans, rabbits, dogs, gorillas and—pretty much everything you could possibly think of. Their uncle was creating a literal zoo of creatures. And he was only using his _hands_.

"How is he doing it?" Ginger asked, her voice hushed as a herd of horses galloped across the sheet.

Thomas shook his head, dumb-founded, "I have no idea."

"Is that—is that a _monkey_ eating a banana?" Annabelle looked back at her uncle.

Fang shrugged, "Yep. I call 'em Sid. Oh-," he gave a flip of his wrist, "-there goes the banana peel."

"Whoa… wait—isn't that guy going to slip on it?" Thomas pointed at another shadow walking across the sheet.

Fang narrowed his eyes and then turned to glare at Big-nose, "Get your fingers out of my puppet show, Ralph!"

The other thug pouted and resentfully dropped his hands, "But it looks like fun…"

"Oh, come on Uncle Fang-," Ginger pleaded, coming over to him and setting her hands on his knee, "-can you show _me_ how to do it?"

Fang shook his head, "No can do, Ginger girl. My secrets are kept secret for a reason."

"But… _please_?" She gazed imploringly up at him, her green eyes wide and her lower lip trembling.

He looked over at Hook-hand. The other thug's mustache rose with a smile. No one could resist Ginger.

"It's not fair that you're so adorable." Fang muttered to Ginger. She merely beamed at him. "All right. Let's turn this shadow-puppet performance into a lesson."

"Yay!" The little girl leapt up and began to mimic her uncle's hand motions. She was recreating scenes in seconds.

Meanwhile, Thomas attempted to form something menacing with a single hand. He was not having much luck.

"Uncle Albert, I can't do anything with my arm in a sling." Thomas sighed, giving up on his modest bunny rabbit shadow.

Hook-hand frowned, "I wonder…"

His nephew watched as Vladimir's dog was scared away by Ginger's tiny squirrel. "What?"

"Could you possibly hold a hook without injuring yourself or anyone else?"

Thomas turned his head so fast he hurt his neck. Rubbing at his sore muscles, the boy gaped at his uncle, "You'd let me do that?"

"Well-," Hook-hand glanced over at Annabelle. She had decided not to participate in the shadow performance and was still reclining on the couch, reading her book. "I think it'd be okay."

In another part of the library, Stanley looked up from his desk of paperwork. He could hear laughter and talking coming from beyond the shelves in the direction of the fireplace. The pub thugs and royal children were probably having a good time that night. Unfortunately, however, he was working. He had a lot to catch up on—lists, inventories, recording… suddenly he heard Annabelle's voice rise up in a question, receiving a rumbled answer in return. Stanley pushed his ledger aside and stood up. A few minutes' break would not hurt.

Wandering through the bookshelves, the librarian's assistant reached the fireplace to see an interesting sight. Big-nose, now with Ginger upon his shoulders, was throwing a dramatic shadow against the sheet while Fang used his own body to cut a dark, bold figure. He saw that in the corner, Thomas was examining his uncle's hook while the thug watched him carefully. Vladimir tended the fire, tossing another log in. But his best friend was reading a book, oblivious to it all.

Stanley set his arms on the top of the couch, looking down at Annabelle.

"What's going on?"

"Shadow puppetry." She replied, turning another page.

The young man frowned, "Why aren't you doing any?"

Annabelle rolled her eyes, "Oh come on, Stan. You know I'm horrible at anything artistic."

"No you're not. Now come on." He came around to the other side of the couch as, behind him, Ginger gave a squeal of delight. She and Big-nose had conquered the heroic shade of Fang.

"I can't. I'll just sit here and-."

He gently lifted the book out of her hands, "You can read later. But you only get a chance to do stuff like this once."

Annabelle looked at him, seeing the firelight reflecting on his glasses. He was smiling.

"Okay, but I warn you it's not going to be pretty."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that." Stanley replied, joining her before the fire.

* * *

That night on Jacob's Island, Oskar's Tiki Hut was swarming with well-dressed, vacationing tourists all participating in an elaborate party. Two of these tourists managed to extricate themselves from the gabbling crowd milling around outside the small building. They began to leave the vicinity of the bonfires and cheering of the other people, turning their faces to the dark beach. Behind them, a rather loud song was lifted into the air.

"Weee belooong together! Weee belooong together! Yes, we do! You'll be mine… fowever!"

Eugene glared back at the singing mob, muttering, "We totally should've won karaoke night."

"Stop complaining about it, Eugene." Rapunzel replied, wincing as a new verse of the song was begun. Unfortunately, the rest of the tourists were not very good singers. They kept missing the high notes—or any notes for that matter.

Her husband shook his head, punching his fist in his hand as he protested, "No—no, that old guy—you know, who actually got the reward—just kept singing and singing and he wouldn't give anyone else any time! I mean, _we_ had to smush our song together for goodness sake!"

"I know. But it's not like we really need more gold, shiny things around the palace."

"I suppose… but-," he held out his hands to indicate size, "-it was such a _cool_ little statue!"

"What would you do with a little statue like that, anyway?" She asked, glancing out over at the crashing waves.

Eugene shrugged, "Don't know. But I think the kids would've voted for us."

"Tom wouldn't. He hates love songs."

"Yeah. And apparently everyone else does, too."

Rapunzel laughed, "Just because they voted against us doesn't mean they didn't like the song."

Eugene rolled his eyes, "You're just too nice, Rapunzel. You trust everybody. But there were cheaters—I think that old guy was coughing when I was singing and he drowned out my impressive voice."

"I'm sorry."

"You sounded nice though." He winked at her.

Rapunzel smiled widely, "Thank you, dear. You weren't half-bad yourself, considering…"

"Considering what?"

"You haven't sung in front of people for years. I was surprised you even wanted to participate in karaoke night."

Eugene cleared his throat, "Well, sometimes the pipes need a bit of dusting. And this way—no one we know will ever find out about it."

"Says you." Rapunzel smirked, bumping her shoulder against his arm.

He held up a hand to his ear, asking, "Ah? Doth this dear, delicate damsel declare a dash of deviousness dedicated to defaming her devilishly debonair darling?"

She narrowed her eyes, "Did you make all that up just now?"

"Impressive, eh? I've always had a way with words." He grinned.

"Sure have." Rapunzel replied, taking a seat on the sand to gaze out at the quiet, dark ocean.

With a groan, Eugene sat down beside her and began removing his boots as she—barefoot already—set aside her shoes.

"I suppose you want to lie out under the stars for a while?" He asked, unbuckling the straps on his boots.

His wife shrugged, gazing up at the night sky, "We could. Or we could dance."

"Dance?"

"Why not? It's a magnificent night and it would be a shame if no one enjoyed it."

Eugene glanced around, taking in the landscape. The beach remained nearly silent, with only the calm, constant crashing of the waves and the glorious call of the night wind to play background music. The sky above was a dark, dark blue with white stars gleaming like crushed diamonds upon a velvet blanket. The moon was a silver crescent surrounded by wispy clouds that seemed to be embraced by the deepness of the heavens. This majestic wonder of the firmament, combined with the continuous song of the swelling water and stern breeze seemed to bring a strange, undeniable formality to the world. It was beautiful, in a way.

"It _is_ quite magnificent." Eugene admitted in a hushed voice, getting to his feet and dusting the sand from his backside. Then he turned, offering his hand to his wife.

"Would you care to dance?"

"I was only kidding about that, Eugene. Besides, we don't have a song to dance to." However, she did allow him to pull her gently up.

"We have the music of the sea and-," he set his other hand on her waist, leading her to the water's edge, "-if that's not enough, we could always do a reprise of our second-place song."

Rapunzel cocked her head, "What do you mean, 'second-place?'"

"Well—it's second-place if your name is Oskar."

Slowly, Eugene led into a simple waltz, murmuring, "And at last I see the light… and it's like the fog has lifted…"

Rapunzel smiled, joining in, "And at last I see the light-," he twirled her around in a circle, feet splashing into the shallows, "-and it's like the sky is new…"

"And it's warm-," they sang together, dancing smoothly in the waves, "-and real-," Eugene pulled her closer, "-and bright…"

"And the world has somehow shifted…" He dipped Rapunzel backward, supporting her in his arms.

"All at once, everything is different-," Eugene stroked her face, whispering, "-now that I see you…"

Rapunzel gazed up at him, repeating quietly, "Now that I see you..."

He smiled and leaned down to kiss her, but then stopped.

Something was wrong. The world seemed to be getting darker as if by a shadow. Eugene glanced to his left while Rapunzel looked to her right. There was a rather large wave looming up just beyond them. And, before either one could do much more than gasp in shock, the enormous, unexpected wave crashed onto the shore.

Eugene floundered in the water, sputtering as he got to his knees, brushing his wet hair back.

"Rapunzel?" His eyes widened. She was nowhere in sight.

"Rapunzel!" He charged forward, a sudden fear rising in his heart.

There was a splashing sound to his left as Rapunzel rose up from the ocean, coughing. He quickly helped his wife to stand up, compensating for the extra weight her soaked dress now added. She held onto his arms to keep balance, taking a deep breath of the salty, cool air.

Eugene took her face in his hands, asking in concern, "Are you all right?"

Then, to his extreme amazement, Rapunzel threw back her head and laughed.

"Rapunz-?"

"We are never—I repeat—_never_ going to have good luck with that song." She grinned as another, much smaller wave hit against their legs.

Her husband frowned, "What?"

"Don't you remember what happened last time? And I'm not talking about the karaoke—I'm talking about the lanterns and-."

"Oh yeah. Yeah, that didn't turn out too well." He let out a short, nervous laugh and carefully helped her back to shore. There they collapsed onto the wet sand, listening to the unending lull of the sea.

"So," Eugene remarked after a while, "I guess you're not up to dancing again?"

Rapunzel smirked, "Dear, you're shivering."

"It's cold out here." He said through chattering teeth.

His wife moved closer to him and hugged him tightly, muttering, "Better?"

"Yeah." He grinned, setting his arm around her shoulders.

"You know," she said as she nestled her head under his chin, "I don't think I've ever danced on the beach at night before."

Eugene chuckled, "Well, now you can say you have."

"Looks like it. Of course, there are a lot of things I can say I've done thanks to you."

"Likewise."

They both gazed out across the ocean, once more surveying the beauty of the night sky. This place could be considered paradise, by some people. But those people probably did not have children.

"Rapunzel?" Eugene asked.

"Hmmm?"

"I'm just thinking… and, well—I really love being here with you and having alone time with just us, but…"

She turned her face up to look at him, "What?"

"I miss the kids."

Rapunzel narrowed her eyes, "_You_ miss the kids? You—the one who's wanted to go on vacation for about half a year and constantly moans that we haven't had proper romance in months—are pouting about the kids?"

He nodded, "Well—yeah."

Rapunzel smiled, replying, "Oh thank goodness. I was worried I was the only one."

"You're not mad at me?"

"Darling, why would I be mad? It's not that surprising you miss them—they _are_ our children, after all. Besides," she took his hand, "I like alone time—but I like it better when we're being interrupted. It's more exciting that way."

Eugene smirked and pressed his lips against her head, muttering, "It _is_ more exciting that way, isn't it?"

"I always thought so."

"So it's decided then? We come back home a day early?"

"We won't get there till Saturday morning." She pointed out.

Her husband shrugged, "At least it's not Sunday afternoon."

"True. All right—but we'll have to cancel that dinner plan we had."

"_Oh no_, looks like I won't get to eat fish after all." Eugene lamented sarcastically.

Rapunzel laughed, "I'm sure you're very upset."

"Terribly upset—almost as upset as I am about losing to Randy."

"Somehow, I think you'll be able to live with it."

Eugene listened to the crashing of the sea and murmured, "Somehow."


	7. Chapter 7

**Author Note**: And at long last, the week (that was started back in January, mind) is finished! :D I apologize for the long wait for its completion and for posting... but I am happy to be done with another story and I can't wait to focus on the two I've got :D so I hope you all enjoy this bit, know that you WILL see the pub thugs again in some shape or form, and that they really are a good crew of characters :D they're just harder to write for than the family :) Thanks for waiting, reading, reviewing, faving, and all around being awesome :D I promise to try to get something else up soon, but I hope you find this fun to read and funny as well :D

_Soli Deo Gloria_

**Disclaimer**: Disney owns Tangled, its characters, and its story. Oh, and there are also several references in here ranging from books, movies, to animated tv shows :D find them if you can! :D

* * *

"We are twenty of the roughest, toughest, meanest men in the entire kingdom. We've worked as highwaymen, we've been bodyguards, we've been in more bar fights than anyone I know, and we've won first place in the Annual Thug Pie-throw Contest for the last seventeen years. So can you _please_ explain to me how we managed to lose three kids in a KIDDIE CARNIVAL?" Hook-hand demanded of the line of thugs standing before him.

Big-nose shrugged and gestured to the throngs of gabbling children running past, "To be fair, Albert, there are kids _everywhere_."

Hook-hand wielded his hook around so that it rested under the other thug's rather large nose, barking: "That's Hook-hand to you!"

"Okay, but I still don't see what the problem is. I mean—we know where Annie is."

"Yeah-," Tor muttered, squinting over at the distant Ferris wheel, "-the ride just broke down, that's all."

Another thug nodded, adding, "And Attila's with her, so no worries."

"But we still don't know where Ginger or Tom are and-," Hook-hand waved his arms around the mass of multicolored tents, games, and rides, "-this place is _huge_!"

Big-nose sighed, "How about we split up, huh? It'll probably make searching easier."

"Very well, I suppose we have no other choice. Ralph, you take Tor, Shorty, Thorn and Killer and search the northeast and northern section of the park. Gunther, you take Ulf, Archer, Bruiser and Fang and cover the northwest corner and some of the southwest." Hook-hand turned to the remaining thugs, "Garcon, Axel and Archimedes, we'll cover the other parts of the carnival. Now let's move, people!"

Roaring, the thugs split up into raiding parties and spread out to locate their missing niece and nephew.

* * *

Annabelle watched the group break apart and race in opposite directions while scaring a crowd of kids with their shouts. She shook her head and lifted her eyes to see the rest of the park. It was quite easy to survey the carnival while being stranded on the topmost part of the Ferris wheel. She could see the animal tent, the carousel, and the game booths laden with cheap prizes; she could also see the food stations, the rickety rides, and even the wide amphitheatre dedicated to musical performances. Basically, the carnival resembled nothing more than an array of various tents stretched across an open field near the town of Dean.

She sighed, resting her face moodily in her hands as she gazed out across the amassed rainbow-colored pavilions.

Beside her, Attila glanced down at his oven-mitts, trying to think of some way to pass the time. Finally he asked, his voice echoing inside his helmet, "So… how are your cooking lessons with the head chef?"

"Fine, I suppose. Last week I learned how to cook spaghetti while using noodles imported from the Torren Peninsula."

"Ah yes—those noodles are quite tricky. They require a lot of boiling before they're soft enough."

Annabelle shrugged, "Chef Arnold also insists that ocean water is the best way to cook them—he says that's how they do it on the Peninsula."

Attila nodded, "That's the traditional way—but in Corona, most people like using fresh water for boiling."

"Stan said that too, when I told him about it."

"Stan?"

She smiled, "He's the royal librarian assistant, and I've been friends with him as far back as I can remember. I don't know if you met him or not."

"Wait… wasn't he the young man who somehow ended up in that water-war your brother wanted to have?" Attila tapped his mitt-covered fingers on the handle bar of their car.

Annabelle laughed, "Yep, that was Stan. He went in to get Thomas because I was worried about him."

"Nice fellow."

"I think so." She replied softly, returning to looking at the landscape while her uncle glanced down to see a repairman struggling with the Ferris-wheel mechanism.

* * *

Hook-hand and his group began their search at the petting zoo. It was a wide, fenced-in area full of babbling mobs of children and bleating goats and sheep. A few pigs trundled in the dust, grunting much like how the usual customers of the Snuggly Duckling did at dinnertime. No park official was on watch, so the kids were free to harass the animals, and the animals were harassing right back. Unfortunately, most of the thugs did not know how to search for children. So they instead resorted to picking up kids at random and seeing if they were related to them.

Garcon held up a screaming girl to his face, peering at her suspiciously. "I think this might be the little one."

"Put me down! Put me down you smelly man!" The little girl kicked him in the nose, freeing herself and racing off in the opposite direction.

Garcon held his nose, wincing. He called out in a nasally voice: "Hey Archie! How are you doing?"

Archimedes shook his head as he waded through a crowd of goats, "Did Hook-hand say 'kids' as in goats or kids as in kids?"

"'Kids' as in _goats_, Archie," Garcon replied back sarcastically. "We're looking for the crown goat prince and his little sister."

"Really?"

Hook-hand, who at this moment had been passing by, slapped Garcon on the back of the head. "Stop confusing him! This is important!"

"Sorry, boss."

Just then, a rather angry shout came from the other end of the petting zoo as Axel was suddenly smacked by an enraged grandmother.

"What do you think you're doing, picking up my grandbaby?" She shrieked, swinging her heavy red handbag and striking the thug in the stomach.

"Ma'am—I'm only trying to—please stop-," Axel dodged another hit, yelping as she continued to holler.

Garcon snorted slightly, "I forgot what kind of effect Axel has on females."

Hook-hand shoved his fellow thug back, ordering: "Shut it, Garcon, and keep looking. I'll go straighten this out."

He walked over to where Axel was still being pounded mercilessly by the enraged grandmother. Axel's protests could be heard ringing out with every blow as the she continued to screech.

"Please—I'm just-!"

"Infernal hooligan!"

Axel held up his hands pleadingly, "But Ma'am—_ow_! What do you have in there, canned cat food?"

"Rotten scoundrel!" She flapped her purse against his shoulder.

"Ouch! Ooo! Stop, please-!"

"I should have you arrested! Johnny, go and get the police!" Her grandson immediately ran off to do as instructed.

"Madam, I believe you are mistaken." Hook-hand walked up from behind, his shadow falling across her.

Her eyes widened in shock, and she gasped, "There's another one of you ugly brutes!"

"Ugly? Now wait just a—ouch!" Hook-hand ducked below another whack as the enraged grandmother continued to beat both him and Axel, yelling for backup.

Unfortunately, backup came in the form of a frustrated aunt and a panicky babysitter. They both had heavy purses as well, and soon all three women were waling on the thugs with all the venom they could muster. Hook-hand and Axel, despite being thugs, were also gentlemen and would never hit a lady on purpose. So it was that they endured the walloping handbags while trying to explain what they were doing.

Archimedes wandered over to Garcon, gazing at the yelling group over at the far edge of the yard. He leaned towards him, whispering: "Do you reckon we should help?"

Garcon shook his head, "Nah. Boss just smacked me and I'm not feeling particularly friendly to him at the moment."

Archimedes absently petted one of the goats by his heels, murmuring, "Good goatie."

Garcon stared at him, "You _do_ realize we're not actually looking for goats, right? We're looking for Eugene and Rapunzel's kids—our niece and nephew."

He shrugged, "I know. But remember, Vlad's with Ginger, and Tom can take care of himself. I don't think we have to worry too much."

"Yeah."

They both watched in interest as Axel tried to escape the barrage by leaping over the petting zoo fence. Unfortunately, he woke up a bad-tempered pig by stepping on its tail. The hog squealed in anger and began to give chase, finally butting the poor thug into a nearby feeding trough.

Finally, Hook-hand had managed to calm down his attackers. Rubbing his eye, where the panicky babysitter had clipped him with her fanny-pack, Hook-hand said wearily: "Please calm yourselves, ladies. We are not here to terrorize your children in the slightest. We are simply trying to locate our niece and nephew."

"You _lost_ your niece and nephew?" The frustrated aunt asked, her eyes widening.

"Well, they just went missing and-."

"_What_ kind of uncles are you?" The angry women demanded in furious harmony, and then the trio began their onslaught once more, all the while shouting about improper child-handling.

Hook-hand gave up on trying to placate them and instead sprinted away, barking: "RUN!"

His fellow thugs took flight, running along after him as more incensed women and one snorting pig broke away from the petting zoo to administer punishment to the hapless uncles.

* * *

Meanwhile, Vladimir and Ginger were standing by the cotton candy stall. Vladimir and Ginger were buying cotton candy. Vladimir and Ginger _loved_ cotton candy.

The giant thug held up a large cocoon of the fluffy, spun-sugar, smiling happily. Ginger strolled along in front of him, and he would occasionally pass her a handful of cotton candy to munch on as she walked. They wove in and out among the game and food counters, the little girl chatting animatedly while her huge companion listened in complete contentment.

"Sometimes, if I try _really_ hard, I can get Daddy to tell me the unicorn story. I could get him to tell it to the both of us when Mommy and him get back."

Vladimir nodded, taking a bite out of the cotton candy. He asked a question that was muffled by the cobwebs of sugar in his mouth.

Ginger, however, had become quite adept at discerning his mumbles, and replied, "He won't mind. He never does. Even if he's tired, Daddy will tell me stories." She sighed, "I miss them."

The giant thug grinned down at her, "Don't worry. They'll be home soon."

"I know," Ginger beamed. "And then they can hear about everything we've done this week."

Vladimir's smile weakened, and he said tightly, "Yes they can. But you should probably tell them _after_ we leave."

"Why?"

"We—we don't want to um…" he cast his eyes around, trying to find some distraction. Vladimir jerked his arm forward, blurting: "Hey, Ginger—look over there!"

"Where?" She turned to where he was pointing and gasped.

There was a long line of game booths stretching off to their right. Prizes—stuffed animals, cheap noisemakers, more cotton candy, and various other items—dangled from the top of the stalls like baited fishhooks. The fish themselves were swarming the stalls, jabbering incessantly while trying to win the different games.

Vladimir glanced down at his niece, mentally congratulating himself for his successful diversion, when he noticed her gaze trained on one booth in particular. He followed her eyes and beheld, hanging from the booth of the classic 'knock-over-the-milk-bottles' game, a pair of giant, fluffy unicorns.

"It—it…" Vladimir muttered, dropping the cotton candy in stunned disbelief.

"It's so fluffy I'm gonna die!" Ginger exclaimed, running over to the stall and gaping up at the fluffy unicorns.

The sleazy-looking booth operator grinned toothily down at his new customer, "Would you like to try the game little girl?"

She nodded, "Please?"

"Five farthings, princess." The man said, checking his slicked back hair in a mirror he had set up behind the counter.

"Uncle Vlad-," Ginger turned to look up at the thug. "Uncle Vlad, can I have five farthings?"

He nodded, still staring at the unicorns, and passed the required payment across the counter to the booth operator.

"Here you go, princess." The operator said, setting three balls onto the counter. "Toss these at the bottles over there. Knock 'em all over and you've got yourself a prize."

Ginger eagerly clambered onto the stool set before the counter, seized one of the missiles, and threw it with all her might to the waiting pyramid of bottles. The ball struck off the top one, leaving the others untouched.

"Two more tries, girlie."

She grabbed another ball, narrowed her eyes, and launched it towards her target, successfully knocking the next two down. Ginger cheered, looking up at Vladimir.

"Only three more left, Uncle Vlad!"

"Three more." Vladimir repeated softly, his eyes fixed on the unicorns.

Ginger picked up the final ball, readied her aim, and threw it, striking the middle bottle.

The ball bounced off, leaving the bottles quite unmoved.

"Ooo, sorry, princess. Looks like you don't get a prize after all." The booth operator muttered, clicking his tongue as he examined his manicured nails.

"What?"

Vladimir glanced down, noticing the tragic note in his niece's voice. He glared at the man, "What's wrong?"

"She didn't knock down all the bottles. Don't knock 'em down, don't get any prize."

"But Uncle Vlad-," Ginger took hold of his brawny arm, gazing up at him, "-I _did_ hit the bottle! I hit it but the ball bounced off!"

"Hey, what kind-of game are you running here anyway?" The thug demanded, scowling.

The operator shrugged, "A simple game for simple minds."

Vladimir snorted and reached into the pouch at his waist, slamming five more coins onto the counter, "Let this simple mind try it."

He shook his head, retorting, "_You_ need ten. It's not fair otherwise."

The giant thug stonily dropped another handful of farthings into the man's outstretched hand. Then he waited for the bottles to be set back into place.

"All right-," the operator set a single ball onto the counter, "-you've got one shot."

Vladimir looked down the missile, "One shot?"

"Fairness first."

The thug growled, and was only placated by Ginger's hand squeezing his wrist. He nodded and, after helping her to the ground, stepped back, rolling his massive shoulders. Then he took the ball into his hands and sighted down the space of air between himself and the waiting bottles.

Glinting in the sunlight, the glass bottles seemed to mock him. He _knew_ the booth operator was mocking him, but those bottles were too much.

"All right, shiny vessels of evil, taste my power." Vladimir murmured, reeling back his hand and shooting the ball towards the pyramid of glass.

If bottles could speak, the ones on the receiving end of Vladimir's toss would have been screaming bloody murder. Needless to say, they did let out quite a protest when the ball struck them and not only knocked the bottles (even the ones that were glued on) off their perch—it caused them all to burst from impact. Shards flew everywhere, ripping through the tent and flying out onto the dirt.

Vladimir looked on in satisfaction as the booth operator slowly raised his head up from where he had ducked below the counter.

"We'd like our unicorns now."

"B—but…" He was trembling, feeling the top of his head where a stray piece of glass had neatly shaved off a line of hair.

"That's okay. I can get them myself."

Vladimir easily reached up and unhooked the two unicorns. He gave Ginger the pink unicorn, smiling.

Somehow oblivious to the fact that her uncle had just destroyed the game booth, the girl beamed up at him, announcing: "IT'S SO _FLUFFY_!"

"Yes," Vladimir examined his own unicorn, his smile turning into a broad grin, "yes it is."

"Let's go try out that hammer one, Uncle Vlad! I bet you'll send it fifty feet into the air!" Ginger took hold of her uncle's hand and he allowed her to 'drag' him onward to another game booth.

The sleazy operator stared about his ruined stall. He gave a sigh of dejection and went off to the medical tent, seeking some aspirin.

* * *

Big-nose gestured to the sign again, demanding, "Come _on_! Albert told us to check this area of the park and this is the only ride we haven't looked at yet!"

"There was a reason for that." Tor muttered, gazing warily at the 'Tunnel of Love' flamboyantly painted across the entrance to the dreaded ride.

Killer nodded, agreeing, "A very good reason."

The other thugs mumbled in harmony, frowning at the painfully-pink hearts plastered all over the tent and at the swanboats waiting in the moat. There was a bored operator reading 'Dandyman's Monthly' at his booth. Just then, a group of young couples came over to the stall and began purchasing tickets.

"Do you really think Tom would go in there? Or Ginger, for that matter?"

Big-nose sighed and nodded at the ride again, protesting helplessly: "Listen guys, we should at least_ try_. And besides, Shorty's already gone on ahead and we can't afford to get thrown out of the park."

Tor rubbed his chin, smirking, "That's true. We all know Shorty's a few pecans short of a fruitcake."

"I think you mean he's not the quickest bunny in the forest." Thorn suggested, laughing.

The gardening thug remarked, "Or maybe that he's as bright as a lamp in Aladdin's cave."

"Guys, that's enough." Big-nose groaned, knowing full well that this could take hours.

"You know, I'd say that Shorty is a few needles short of a sewing kit." Killer added, receiving grins from everyone but Big-nose.

Tor shrugged, "I suppose. But one thing he most definitely can't do is pour water out of a boot with instructions on the heel."

"Guys-," Big-nose seized Tor and Killer by their tunic fronts, dragging them forward, "-we are getting on that ride _now_! And we are finding the kids or Shorty! And you can complain all-," he shoved them both into a boat, "-you want but we have a job to do as uncles and as thugs! Thorn!"

"Yeah?" The thug asked hesitantly, never having seen Big-nose this forceful before.

He pointed at the remaining swanboat, snapping, "Get in there! We are going on this ride if, for nothing else, to make you all into gentlemen!"

"But I don't want to be a gentle-."

"INTO THE BOAT!"

"All right—all right, Ralph, keep your nose on."

"The correct term is 'shirt' Thorn." Killer pointed out, already removing his sewing kit from his knapsack for what he assumed would be a boring ride.

"Whatever. Just-," Thorn stopped at the glare Big-nose was giving him. He grinned weakly, "Hey, Ralph..."

"Thank you for volunteering. You-," Big-nose slammed the oars down onto his lap, "-get to row."

"But-."

"Now!"

Murmuring darkly, Thorn began to pump the oars up and down through the mysteriously-blue water of the ride's moat. Slowly, Killer and Tor followed. And then they rowed into the shadowy insides of the 'Tunnel of Love'.

As their eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, the thugs saw that they were in the midst of a Valentine's Day festival. Sparkling, glittery hearts hung from the eaves of the tunnel while pink and purple mood lighting filled the corners and illuminated posters of cupid and other cute, chubby angelic babies. It was rather silent, with only the creaking sound of oars and the splashing of that strange blue water echoing about. Minutes drifted by, with no sign of anything except cheap confetti and strings of heart decorations.

Then, gradually, the sound of a well-tuned ukulele and perhaps a not-so-well-tuned voice began to ring out through the quietness of the tunnel.

"Two lovers—forbidden from one another—a war divides their people… And a mountain divides them apart… built a path to be together-."

"Ralph, will you _STOP_ SINGING THAT STUPID SONG?" Thorn insisted, trying to make as much noise as he possibly could by banging the oars against the side of the boat.

Killer nodded, calling from behind them, "Yeah. And where on earth did you get that ukulele from?"

"I always carry a spare." Big-nose responded, patting his ukulele comfortably.

"When are we _ever_ going to need a ukulele?"

"Well when are we ever going to need a sweater?"

Killer glanced down at the sweater he was working on, "Touche'."

Suddenly, the flow of water began to speed up. They were entering the more exciting part of the tunnel.

"Keep the oars in. I think this might get a bit bumpy."

"Ralph, I highly doubt that the 'Tunnel of Love' is anything to be worried about." Thorn muttered sarcastically.

"Say that to those guys." Big-nose replied, jabbing a thumb back at a small inlet where an overturned swanboat bobbed up and down. The swanboat's erstwhile occupants were standing, thigh-deep, in the swirling water, quite shocked at what had just happened.

"What kind of ride is-?" Thorn started to ask, but his words flew back into his throat when the boats took a dip down a waterfall to the lagoon below.

Outside the 'Tunnel of Love' ride, the operator grinned and cranked up the speed, listening to the howls of surprise echoing from the ride's depths. He loved this job.

* * *

Meanwhile, Thomas, crown prince of Corona, was walking around the park looking for something to do. He had already ridden all the rides he was allowed to ride—and several he was not allowed to ride—and he had eaten his fill of sugar and junk food. Now all he had left in the way of money was a dented farthing piece. But that was barely enough to secure one minute's worth of entertainment. How would he survive the next several hours if he did not have anything left to spend?

Struggling with this predicament, Thomas trotted along the dusty street. He had entered the middle part of the carnival. It was where the four biggest factions (the animals, the rides, the games, and the food) all met together to form some kind of mini-park in the bigger park. He was passing a nearby candy stall when something hard struck him in the back of the head.

Thomas frowned and glanced around, his hand immediately going for the slingshot in his backpocket. There were multitude of children and families surrounding him. No one seemed very suspicious. Still scanning the crowd, he knelt to pick up a small, rubber ball that had landed beside his feet.

"Hey! That's mine!" A skinny, dark-haired boy ran up to him. He was probably a few years Thomas's senior, and he had a faintly pointed sort-of look to his face.

The boy made to snatch back the ball, but Thomas jerked away, asking, "Why'd you throw it for?"

"Because-," the boy squirmed neatly around to grab the ball, "-Stephen dared me."

"Who?" Thomas looked up at him, still wondering if he should pull out his slingshot or not.

"My brother. Hey—what happened to your arm?"

"I broke it trying to fly." Thomas replied, proudly presenting the sling that held his healing arm.

The boy's face brightened, "Cool! Do you like games?"

"Um…"

The boy nodded to a booth behind him, "There's this guy who says he'll double the player's money if he wins. Stephen and I can't get it but you look smart. Maybe you can get it."

Thomas shrugged, "All right. But I've only got a farthing left."

"That's enough. Come on." He started forward and then turned back, "Wait—what's your name?"

"Tom."

The boy grinned, "I'm David. You can call me Dave for short—that's what my parents do anyway."

"Dave! Get over here!"

"I'm coming! For goodness sake the kid can't wait for one second…" David raced over to where his elder brother—also dark-haired—stood by one of the game booths.

Thomas jogged along behind him to come up in front of the taller boy.

Stephen narrowed his eyes, asking, "Where'd you find him, Dave?"

His brother pointed to the street, "Out there. He says he's got a farthing and I think he could win the game."

"I don't know… I think he looks a little on the stupid side."

"Aw, Steve, come on. Besides-," David lowered his voice, "-he might be able to help us get Dad's money back."

"Fine. But the guy who runs the stall won't return until-."

"Kids, I see you haven't yet vacated the premises of my fine establishment." A tall, spindly-legged man moved into place behind the counter, drumming his long fingers on the painted wood. He raised an eyebrow, spying Thomas. "Ah, I see you've decided to bring in reinforcements. Come here, kid. Try to find the queen-," he flipped over a card and showed him the queen of spades. "I'll let you do a free runthrough since it's your first time."

"But-." Thomas felt himself being shoved forward by an eager David.

"Watch the cards—watch the cards… see if you can find the queen." The game manager shifted five cards over the counter top, watching as Thomas's eyes followed the cards.

"Okay then." The man finished moving the cards and leaned back in his chair. "Try it, kid."

Thomas, who had played this game before with his father, silently pointed at the second card to the left.

"Good job, kiddo." The operator grinned, flipping over the card to reveal the queen. "Want to try again? Cost a farthing. You'll get two in return should you win."

"He's just trying to trick-." David started to hiss, stopping only because his brother elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

Thomas withdrew his coin and slapped it onto the counter, "Again."

"Right, kid. Try it this time."

The man redid his original movements, and then, faster than blinking, slid his hands across the cards and flipped, folded, shuffled and spread them out.

The prince squinted and reached out his hand, deftly turning the last card over, revealing the queen. He smirked, "Got it."

He smiled and nodded, poking his tongue into his cheek, "Okay then—how about raising the stakes? Four farthings if you win? Nut'n if you lose?"

"Bring it."

"Will do." The game manager began to move the cards much faster this time, slowing down towards the middle, and then speeding up at the end.

Thomas stared hard at his hands, but lost the queen halfway through. He still did not know what had happened to the card when the man took his hands away.

"Find her now, kid." He said smugly.

Behind him, Thomas could hear David sighing and Stephen muttering something probably unfortunate. He shook his head, trying to block out all noise, and focused on what his father had told him. If you lose the card, then study the hands that dealt them.

The boy turned his keen eyes upon the man's fingers, seeing the faint rhythm he was tapping out across the counter. Two taps, three rapid taps, and then four slow taps… wait—there it was. A pause—probably unconsciously done—at the middle card. Thomas sighed as if in defeat and pointed at the center card.

"That one…"

The man's eyebrows rose up his forehead in surprise. He flipped the card to show the queen, "Wow, kid. That was impressive."

"So he gets four farthings, right?" David asked excitedly, leaning over the counter.

He nodded, "Ye—es. Unless you want to play again?"

David beamed at his new friend, "What do you say, Tom? Huh? What do you say?"

Thomas glanced back at Stephen and saw the tiniest glint of interest in his eyes. A glow of inherited theiverish pride rose in the boy's chest. He smirked, "Yeah. I want to play again."

"Very well then. But I'm upping the stakes. Eight farthings—that's two pennies. I'll add in another card and make it an even six cards on the table."

Thomas nodded, "Okay."

* * *

"Gunther, I seriously don't think we'll find them at the rate you're going." Bruiser declared, stepping into the shade of the huge tent reserved for the carnival food contest.

Gunther looked around, clicking his tongue in disgust, "This is an absolutely _terrible_ set-up. Look at how they have the tables just placed in lines all over the place."

Archer rolled his eyes, "I think that's because it's a food contest, Gunth. It's not supposed to look like the Taj Mahal in here…"

"Still—they could've at least tried." The thug sniffed, inhaling the smell of a thousand treats. Apparently the contest was a dessert one, and the dessert in question was pie. Lots and lots of pie. The whole inside of the tent smelled like a fruit basket.

Ulf ran over to them from where he had been searching by the unoccupied judging table. He proceeded to mime at them something involving a small box.

Fang sighed, "No, Ulf, we can't take some home to go. Don't you know they're judging the pies?"

"Speaking of which—didn't Attila enter one of his famous chocolate pies into the contest?" Archer asked.

Bruiser nodded, "Sure did. What do you want to bet he's going to win?"

"Say five farthings?"

"Guys-," Gunther said, minutely adjusting a nearby table, "-let's just look for the kids."

Archer nodded as they began to spread out among the tables, "Gotcha, Gunth."

"Will you please stop calling me that, Archer? You know I prefer Gunther."

"Which is exactly why I call you Gunth, Gunth." His fellow thug smirked, dropping into a crouch to peer below the tables.

Gunther moaned, "Of course it is."

Meanwhile, Fang was examining the many pies laid out on one of the circular counters. He frowned slightly, "Did you know there is a type of fruit called Salisbury plum?"

"It's not a fruit, Fang, it's a color." Gunther replied.

"And apparently-," he lifted up the pie to show the other thugs, "-it's also a fruit."

"Hey, I think I remember Granny making that before. Mmm, Salisbury plum pie." Archer smiled dreamily.

"'tis not half as good as Mama Ophelia's cinnamon pie." Fang replied.

"I know—it's better." Archer flashed a quick grin at him.

Fang glared, still holding the pie in his hands, "Well how do you know? You've never had a decent cinnamon pie in your life."

"Says you. Granny can make a pie out of almost anything and it still tastes amazing."

"Will you guys stop talking about pie and just look for the kids already?" Bruiser barked, walking over to a nearby barrel and peering into its depths.

"Poor Bruise… he never had a decent pie either." Fang sighed, shaking his head.

"Come over to my Granny's house and he will. Hey, Bruiser—you busy this Sunday?"

"No."

"How about Sunday lunch at Granny's house? All you can eat pie-," Archer smirked at Fang, adding, "-the absolute _best_ in the world. You can come too if you want, Fang. I know you've never experienced such epicness in pastries."

Fang's glare deepened, "That tears it! _No one_ disses Mama Ophelia's pie!"

Gunther rolled his eyes, "Fang, no one was-."

"Eulalia!"

"Eulali—wha—argh!"

There was a resounding 'SPLAT!' as Salisbury plum pie smashed against the side of Gunther's face.

Fang froze, staring at his fellow thug. Crushed fruit began to leak down from the ruined pastry and onto Gunther's shoulder. "Oh… sorry Gunther… didn't know you were-."

"SALISBURY PLUM IS _NOT_ MY COLOR!" Gunther roared, seizing the nearest pie he could find—pumpkin, for those who are curious—and hurled it at Fang.

Fang squeaked and dropped to the ground, the pie sailing overhead to land on Bruiser's shoulder. Bruiser turned slowly around, his brow furrowed in anger.

"Who threw that?" Bruiser demanded.

"Gunth-." Archer started to say, but was cut off when a custard pie (expertly tossed by Fang) slammed straight into his face. He stumbled backward, tripping over his own feet and accidentally knocking three more pies off a nearby table.

Gunther, in the meantime, had successfully pummeled Fang with two more pies (chocolate crème and raspberry), all the while shouting about his now-ruined sheep-wool vest. Curtesy of Bruiser, Gunter had also received the majority of a whipped lemon pastry to his front, the yellow congealing unpleasantly with the mashed Salisbury plum.

Fang ducked a third pie and grabbed a peanut butter one, preparing to pitch it back to Gunther, when Archer nailed him with a cinnamon apricot tart. Slivers of apricot fell to the ground as Fang darted forward, sweeping up two small chocolate pies and flinging them at Archer.

He called over to his fellow thug as he dodged the flying desserts, laughing: "Taste that! It's better than your Granny's second-best pie!"

Abruptly Ulf—who had, as of yet, avoided the action—pulled a stack of cherry pies from a table and began lobbing right and left, smacking each thug with skillfull throws. Archer shook cherry juice from his vision, his hand clamping over an unfortunate peach pie. He yelled, "Call my Granny's pies second-best will you?"

Fang managed to let out a yelp of fright before the peach tartlet violently plugged up his mouth. He collapsed onto the ground, choking, and Ulf ran over, picking the thug up and performing a rapid Heimlich maneuver to dislodge the small missile. The peach tart soared through the air, ricocheting off a tent pole and striking Gunther in the back of the head.

The thug growled and snatched up another pie, hefting it in one hand and chucking it at Fang. Then, yet another pie—blueberry, this time—hurtled towards Gunther to splatter onto his shoulder blades. He whirled around to see Bruiser reaching for another pie. Bellowing in complete frustration, Gunther took a running leap and slammed into Bruiser, knocking over a table in the process and sending pies spinning everywhere. Each pastry struck down its intended and unintended targets, resulting in a brief ceasefire as thugs rose from the dirt, groaning.

Archer attempted to get to his feet, stepped in a half-ruined pie, and slipped back onto the gorund again. Fang brushed aside Ulf's helping hand and instead eased himself up by using a nearby table leg. Gunther pushed off of Bruiser's wide back, his eyes practically popping with rage. Bruiser himself had some difficulty in rising, having had his face shoved into a pie dish that did not seem to want to come off. He sat up, moaning and tugging at the platter now jammed firmly around his face.

Suddenly, a low whistle of amusement caused all the thugs (including Bruiser, despite his inability to see through the pie dish) to look up.

There was a group of eight large, beefy, ugly-looking men standing at the opposite end of the tent. They all had smirks of derision on their unshaven faces, and the leader—a rather portly ruffian with an eyepatch—remarked: "Looks like the 'Ugly' Duckling gang is living up to its reputation of stupidity."

"Gunth, that's-." Archer started, but Gunther nodded and interrupted him gravely.

"I know. They're those depraved ruffians from the Cuddly Kitten."

*insert dramatic music of choice, with maybe a thunderclap and stroke of lightning*

"Ruffians who should've won last year's Pie-throw fair and square!" One of the said ruffians declared bitterly. Next to him, his companions laughed as Bruiser continued to struggle with his pie dish.

Archer quickly hurried forward and peeled the platter off Bruiser's face, revealing his fellow thug's now key-limed complexion.

"You okay, Bruise?"

Bruiser wiped some pie off his face, mumbling, "Yeah. Yeah—thanks, Arch."

"No problem." Archer helped his fellow thug to his feet, slapping some of the crumbled pie crust from his shoulders.

Meanwhile, Gunther was rolling his eyes and replying back to the Cuddly Kitten ruffians: "We won that Pie-throw because none of you could throw straight."

The ruffian glowered at him, barking, "Says you! Your leader—that ugly guy with the hook—can't even throw at all!"

Fang shook his head and retorted, "No! _You_ were just too busy hiding your sorry faces during the fight because the boss was hammering your defenses with every pie in the cookbook!"

"Well _you_-!"

"Silence." The portly ruffian ordered his companion. Then he turned and glared up at Gunther (who was fairly tall for a thug), and announced: "There is only one way to settle this."

"I agree." Gunther replied quietly, nodding.

"Boys-," the portly ruffian said, easily overturning one of the tables, "-time to fight."

His fellow ruffians began to set up their own barricades, ducking down behind them as, across the way, Gunther, Fang, Archer, Bruiser, and Ulf, all set their tables into position. Then, just as seriously, each group began to gather up as many pies as remained. Since there were literally hundreds beneath the tent, each team compiled a good haul of artillery.

Gunther flicked some cherry goo from his ear, whispering: "Now listen up. Those morons outnumber us so we'll have to be on the defensive. All of you have participated in the Pie-throw before, but then we had referees. Well, this time we don't have any referees so-."

"Play dirty?" Fang asked.

"Exactly."

Archer glanced over at their adversaries, murmuring, "Gunth, do you think we can try the 'Banana Splice'?"

"We could try—though you know that's Garcon's specialty—and he's not with us."

Bruiser shrugged simply, "Aw, we can pull it off. Just need the appropriate collection of ammo. Do we have any banana-pudding pies?"

Ulf tapped him on the shoulder and mimed out a series of different actions for the group to see. After a moment, Gunther nodded.

"All right. We can try the 'Banana Slice'. But also, as Ulf has so wisely suggested, throw in a bit of 'Tenterhooks' when we get the chance, and then win the battle by storming them. We'll probably run out of pies by that point, but all we have to do is chase those Kittens off the premises in order to truly claim championship."

"And we _will_ do that, right?" Bruiser asked.

Gunther grinned, "Oh yeah—we'll do that."

Suddenly, a loud voice called over from the other side: "Are you idiots ready?"

Fang glanced over at Gunther, raising an eyebrow, and Gunther's smirk deepened. Fang then reached over and seized a smallish pie, loading it onto his hand. Then, suddenly rising up, he threw the pie and struck the challenger straight in the face with whipped cream, howling: "READY!"

* * *

"So then Stan told me all about his great Aunt Clarise's niece Fiona, explaining how she was imprisoned in a faraway castle when she was young. Then of course I had to tell him about Mom and Dad's story and amazingly enough he believed me. _That's_ when I knew he would be my best friend—although Big Harriet's my best girl-friend, but Stan is my best friend all around. Dad doesn't like him very much, though. He wasn't like that a few years ago but now he's always glaring at Stan every chance he gets for some reason…"

Attila looked up sleepily. It was quite warm up here, so close to the sun, but a pleasant breeze provided ample comfort to those stranded on the Ferris wheel. That, combined with his neice's incessant talking about Stanley Issacs had made the thug quite drowsy. He wondered if Annabelle would notice him nodding slightly if he took a nap. Probably not. The girl was really not aware of her surroundings, so focused she was on describing her best friend Stan.

"And then one day last summer, Stan helped me learn how to play chess. Dad and Mom had tried to teach me before but I never really understood until Stan explained it. He was very patient—he's such a nice guy and I just don't see why Dad has such a prejudice against him. Did you know that Dad actually told Uncle Albert to keep an eye on him? He seems to think Stan is some sort-of criminal. I mean, for goodness sake, Dad _was_ a criminal once and you guys aren't really that better off, and he likes you fine. But Stan's just a librarian's assistant—and he's my _best_ _friend_. You would think that Dad would understand…"

"Hmmm." Attila muttered, leaning over the side to see how the repairman was doing on fixing the Ferris wheel.

The tiny figure was slamming his wrench against the side of the mechanism, howling out words that really should not be used in a kiddie carnival. Attila rolled his eyes.

"Yes, keep hitting the machine. _That_ will make it start working." He commented sarcastically.

Annabelle stopped in her monologue about the librarian's assistant and frowned. "What did you say, Uncle Attila?"

"Nothing. Um—so tell me more about your cooking lessons with the head chef."

"Oh, well Chef Arnold also taught me how to make pumpkin pie last winter. He seemed to think that roasting the pumpkin seeds was a bit silly, though."

"But it's a traditional delicacy." Attila protested, shaking his head in disappointment.

Annabelle grinned, "It's a traditional delicacy in Orae, not here. They like to do chesnuts in Orae, too. I can remember the first time Mom and Dad took me there—there was so much snow…"

* * *

"Okay-," Hook-hand whispered hoarsely, leaning up against a nearby booth, "-I think we've lost them."

Garcon wiped sweat from his forehead, huffing, "You know, for such a bunch of old ladies, those girls have remarkable endurance."

"They're nothing on that wild pig." Axel moaned, feeling his hindquarters where the animal had rammed into him.

Hook-hand shrugged, pushing himself away from the booth, "At least we've managed to give them the slip. Now we can start looking for Tom and Ginger again."

"Are you sure they haven't been found by one of the other guys yet?" Garcon asked, wincing. "Because I don't think I can take much more of this, Boss."

"We have to keep looking." He replied determinedly, marching out, his eyes scanning the area.

Archimedes frowned, "We've come out at the musical arena. I don't think they'd be over here."

All the thugs glanced around, taking in the sight of the in-ground ampitheatre. It was a half-circle ampitheatre, comprised of a set of benches leading down to where a wide dais rose up. There was a rather large throng of specators awaiting the next performance, attention focused on the still-empty stage.

Whoever was the next performer, however, had neglected to show up, and the crowd was getting nervous. One cluster of children—an all-boys' school group of nearby Dean, from the looks of it—had already gotten rowdy. The young students wrestled in the aisles and jumped across benches, ignoring their schoolmasters attempts to calm them down. One set of boys rolled past the thugs, cheering boisteriously as they pummeled each other.

Garcon snorted, "Thank goodness our nephew's not like that."

Hook-hand shook his head, "Just give him a pair of friends his age and watch. Tom's bound to be in some mischief or another. He's too much like his father not to be."

"And I don't see any sign of the kids." Axel declared, peering at the crowd. "Looks like we need to search elsewhere."

They had started to leave when a rather impatient, desperate voice called: "Excuse me! Excuse me, Maestro Albert of Corona!"

Hook-hand turned around to see a short, young woman running up to him. She had a paper in one hand, a pencil tucked behind her ear, and a worried frown upon her face.

"Yes, Miss?" Hook-hand asked generously.

She held out her hand to shake his, explaining: "Listen, one of our concert pianists was not able to make it to the park in time and we need someone to take over. Would you mind if-?"

"I'm sorry, but I'm busy at the moment and-."

"Please sir? Just one song?"

"Go ahead, Boss." Garcon agreed. "Just one song. We'll keep looking for them while you entertain."

"But-." Hook-hand narrowed his eyes.

"Oh thank you, sir. Thank you so much." And, without bothering to ask him if it was all right or not, the young woman had grabbed hold of his hook and was tugging the thug up onstage.

"We have a change in performances, ladies and gentlemen." The young woman said, smiling at the crowd. "Instead of St. Michael of the Ivory Keys we will have Maestro Albert of Corona peform upon the piano for our enjoyment. If you please, Maestro."

Hook-hand froze slightly, somewhat stunned at his predicament. The multitude of children and families all stared up at him, waiting for him to take to the piano bench.

Just then, he felt a little pressure on his back as the young woman pushed him gently towards the piano.

Hook-hand took a seat and flipped open the cover, gazing down at the waiting white keys. He could see, out of the corner of his eye, that his fellow thugs had _not_ continued their search but were instead sitting on the outskirts of the ampitheatre, grinning at him. Very well, if it was a show they wanted, it was a show they were going to get.

And so, setting his fingers and hook upon the piano keys, he began to play.

He started off with a soft melody at first, tenderly lining up the notes in tiny rivulets of such eerie quietness that seemed to make the whole ampitheatre shrink into silence. Then he branched out, pounding in sudden, daring harmonies that interconnected with such strong, binding crescendos as to plunge the song into a deepening elegance. Hook-hand continued to play, his mind combining old pieces with new while thundering notes faded into light, airy half-notes. He changed registers at will, knowing instinctively which part to switch and which additional flat or sharp was needed.

His hook followed his real fingers with expert timing, swinging, point-down, upon each key whenever it was required. He literally danced across the piano, diving into the music itself and swimming through its currents and furrows. He could hear mountain avalanches in the song, and apple trees blossoming in autumn, and deserts bleak and lonely stretching away to the far distance lighted by the burning sun in a cloudless sky. There were intricate twists and turns in the music, ramps of notes disappearing into pools of swirling tunes that all gave out into the final five bars.

And then, at the very end, something interrupted his song.

"THERE THEY ARE! GET THEM!"

Hook-hand stopped abruptly, recognizing the shriek as one belonging to the enraged grandmother. He slowly turned to see Garcon, Axel and Archimedes backing away from an even larger mob of angry ladies. It looked like the frustrated aunt had friends from the knitting society, because several of those women were clutching socks the size of Vladimir's. Then, the panicky babysitter noticed Hook-hand sitting upon the stage, and her scream broke the silence as she led a regiment of ladies in a charge towards him.

"Sorry, gotta go!" Hook-hand apologized, bolting away as fast as his legs could carry him as his companion thugs took flight. The mass of angry ladies followed them, yelling out revenge and demanding use of 'Dr. Lipschitz's Parenting Manual' for throwing at the poor thugs.

After a few, embarressed seconds, the young woman with the pencil behind her ear quickly trotted up onto the dais.

"Um, and that concludes this afternoon's performance. Thank you."

* * *

"It's not going to work."

"Shut up, Steve-," David grunted, shifting as Thomas's feet pressed onto his shoulders, "-of course it's going to work."

His brother rolled his eyes, "_Yeah_, that's what you said when you got this kid to help us win Dad's money back. Now we've been thrown out of the park with no way of getting back in."

Thomas, balancing carefully upon David's shoulders so he could reach the gate keyhole, continued to jiggle his father's lock picks against the metal tumblers. He narrowed his eyes, trying to ignore the argument going on below him. This lock was particularly hard to open—given he only had one hand to use—but he was fairly confident he could crack it. After all, he had just won about twenty-five games of 'find the queen', so this should not be too hard. Not that finding the queen had gotten him anywhere but outside the park.

"Look, Steve, all I'm saying is that Tom—oof—not so hard!"

"Sorry." Thomas muttered, twisting his wrist slightly to lift one of the lock's pins.

David shook his head, turning back to his brother, "Anyway, that jerk deserved to be shown up given what's he's done to us."

"And look what 'showing him up' has done for us. We are now—let me repeat—outside the park with no way to get back in."

Thomas grunted in annoyance, "For the third time, I promise to get us back in. My dad's taught me how to do stuff like this."

Stephen laughed dryly, "Of course he has. What kind-of dad teaches his kid how to pick a lock?"

"An awesome dad." Thomas retorted, flipping his pick upward.

There was a satisfying series of clicks from above, along with a rather self-impressed sigh from Thomas.

"Done."

"How did-?" Stephen asked helplessly.

"No time to explain. Now-," Thomas skillfully descended from David's shoulders, "-let's go in and get your money back."

"He's brilliant!" David exclaimed, watching with awe as the boy pushed open the park's side gate and strode forward.

Stephen shrugged and followed his brother into the park. They had come out behind a set of tents not far from where the game operator had dumped them. All three gazed at the canvass walls of the pavilions, wondering in what direction to head.

Just then, four members of park security walked up.

"Well, lookie what we have here. A trio of trespassers breaking in without tickets perhaps?" The mustachioed superior officer asked, smiling wryly.

"No we—we were thrown out." David tried to explain, but was silenced when his brother elbowed him in the stomach.

The mustachioed officer nodded, "Clearly. All right, boys, just come with us. Your parents will pick you up at the office once we've located them."

"But-." Thomas began, even as the men started to usher them forward.

David frowned, "We just-."

"_Now_, kids." The guards formed up around them, their voices firmly ordering that no funny business was allowed.

Stephen glared over at his brother, murmuring, "Told you he was stupid."

Thomas narrowed his eyes and snapped: "Say that to my face!"

"I just did!"

With a yell Thomas threw himself at the boy, and they both began to roll across the dirt. David stared at the two for a moment, undecided which one to help. Apparently still in the midst of indecision, he launched at them both and began to punch anything he could reach.

The mustachioed officer growled as he and his comrades attempted to pull the boys apart. "Kids—no fighting. No fighting!"

Thomas felt himself being lifted up into the air by a rather strong guard as the superior officer restrained Stephen and another officer took David. Thomas squirmed, but was unable to break free of the man's secure but gentle hold.

"Now let's march to the office without any ruckus, shall we?"

There was a mumbled chorus of 'yes sirs' as the three boys were released to troop dejectedly along after the mustachioed officer.

* * *

"And then we can try playing the duckie game next—and then maybe you could see if the water-balloon guy will let us do that one again—and then maybe-."

"Ginger, I think we've got enough prizes." Vladimir muttered, poking his face out from behind an armful of stuffed animals and various other toys.

His tiny niece, who was pulling a recently won wagon laden with all her other prizes, glanced back at him, frowning. "Are you sure, Uncle Vlad? There're still plenty of games we haven't tried yet."

"Yes, but-," the giant thug coughed out a fake feather he had just inhaled, "-I think we're running out of room and we need to take all this stuff back to the palace. I'm not sure how much of this _will_ fit in the carriage's storage compartments…"

"Ooo—look Uncle Vlad! Look at _that_ ride!"

Vladimir glanced around a particularly large stuffed monkey to see what Ginger was pointing to. They had reached the 'Tunnel of Love' ride—or at least its back entrance.

There were the usual cardboard hearts and paper, glittery Valentine's Day paraphernalia posted around the small exit. There was also a rather epansive pool of water leaking out from beneath the door. Vladimir sidestepped a lengthy stream, commenting, "I think the ride's broken, Ginger."

"It's awful messy." Ginger agreed, also taking care not to get her feet in the water.

Just then, the exit door of the ride was thrown open as Big-nose, Tor, Killer, Thorn, and Shorty all staggered out into the sunlight. Spluttering and shivering, each thug appeared more wet and bedraggled than the last. Killer actually had half a heart plastered to his back and Big-nose was clutching a waterlogged ukulele as though it were a life preserver. Given what had just happened to them, it probably had been used like that to some affect.

"Did you see that tidal wave?" Tor asked weakly, falling onto his knees.

Thorn gave a half-laugh of derision, "Tidal wave? I was paying too much attention to the screaming vortex of death right in front of us!"

"_I_ was the one who was screaming, not the vortex." Killer corrected shakily.

Shorty, who had somehow managed to get into his cupid-custume in the time he had spent in the ride, let out a sympathetic squeak.

"I'm fairly certain there was a kraken in that last lagoon. Did anyone else see the tentacles?" Thorn muttered, shaking water from his ears.

Big-nose looked up to find Valdimir and Ginger—both carrying impressive amounts of prizes—gaping at them. He snorted, got to his feet, and announced, "Found Ginger."

"What?" His fellow thugs watched in dismay as their niece gasped loudly.

"Uncle Ralph, what-?"  
"Don't worry, Ginger. We're okay, right boys?"

There were murmured 'yes's as the thugs painfully got to their feet.

"We were just riding the 'Tunnel of Love' and-," Big-nose glanced at the side of the ride, squinting at a sign plastered outside it. He frowned, reading aloud: "'HephaestusIndustries'… _now_ it makes sense."

"Hey Vlad, where did you get all those toys from?" Tor asked, grinning at the mass of prizes in the giant thug's arms.

"We've been playing games. Um, where are-?"

Thorn interrupted, "Everybody else? We don't know. What happened to Tom?"

Vladimir shrugged, "He ran off as soon as we entered the park. I have no clue where he is now."

"Well, at least we've found you guys. Now let's get back to the front of the park and maybe we'll be able to find the others." Big-nose started plodding squelchily forward, leaving a trail of water in his wake.

* * *

The pie duel between the Snuggly Duckling five and the octagon from the Cuddly Kitten was going along in such fashion as any could imagine. Basically, it was horrendous, harrowing, and rather sticky. It also smelled like fruit and chocolate.

"Gunth, I'm afraid we're running out of pies." Archer said, collapsing behind the barricade.

Gunther, staring through a convient peephole cut into the tabletop, nodded, "I know. But those morons are still going strong. Are they _baking_ pies over there or something?"

"Don't know. But I can tell you one thing-," Fang said, clapping Ulf on the back as the miming thug tossed a peach and raspberry tart into the chest of a ruffian, "-Ulf here is dynamite."

"As terrific as-," Bruiser ducked beneath a flying pie, "-that is, we're still running out of ammunition."

"I know. I know. I'm thinking up a plan right now." Gunther muttered distractedly.

"Well think faster, Gunther! We need missiles and we need them now!" Bruiser rose up and launched another pie towards the opposing team. It landed smack in the face of one of the ruffians, knocking him over completely.

Before Bruiser could celebrate with more than a victory whoop, however, another pie smashed into his forehead, landing him onto his back.

"Bruise?" Archer asked, kneeling next to the moaning thug.

"Is he unconscious? Oh, just _great_! Just really, _really_ great!" Gunther said sarcastically, wiping a smudge of strawberry off his shoulder.

Archer sighed, "We've got a man down."

Fang, after sending another volley at the enemy, quickly got next to Bruiser and began slapping him on the face. "Come on, Bruise ol' buddy ol' pal. Come on, you can make it. Don't give up yet, Bruise! Just think about all the pie!"

"Do I _really_ have to think about the pie?" Bruiser asked sluggishly.

"If it makes you get up, you do!"

"Aw, shaddup, Fang." Bruiser pushed Fang away and rolled over, snoring.

"He's gone." Archer declared, shaking his head.

Gunther pounded his fist against his head as a badly-aimed pie slammed against their barrier. "Okay then, we've only got one option. We need pies and the only place that has them seems to be the enemy camp. Let's prepare to charge."

Fang gazed at him in astonishment: "You don't mean a full assult do you? We'll be creamed out there—literally!"

"Better creamed than beaten at our own game. Come on, men, act like the thugs you are and not the sissies you're fighting! Grab whatever ammo we have left and line up. We're going to face our destiny like God intended: with no looking back!" Guther seized a pie and crouched, ready to spring over the tables.

Uncertainly, Fang and Archer did the same. Ulf, however, pointed at Bruiser.

"You stay with him, Ulf. If the man awakes then send him in as backup. I think we're going to need it."

Ulf nodded and gave Gunther a thumbs-up.

"Thanks. Now, let us go forth and conquer. One, two…"

"CHARGE!"

In a single, massive voice, the three thugs leapt over their fortification and entered no-man's land.

Outside the barriers, the mess was astronomical. There were smashed fruit and pastry everywhere—on benches, tables, tablecloths, and the ground. Pie goo dripped from the ceiling of the tent, while nearly empty dishes slid down the tent poles to gather at the bases. The ground was sticky as tar, and more slippery than ice. Also, due to the heat of the day, the smell had intensified considerably and flies were starting to gather.

Of course, the three thugs saw all this within the few seconds' surprise they had on their opponents. Then pies—dozens of pies—began to soar through the air once more. Yells and shouts of outrage were issued from both sides as the missiles thudded against the oncoming thugs.

Gunther dodged a flying cream pie and sent his dessert arcing towards the leader of the ruffians, plowing into his chest. With a yelp, Fang received a heavy, melting ice-cream pie to his leg, forcing him to drop onto one knee. In retaliation, Archer swung his arm around and battered two of the ruffians with a delicate apple pie. Then Gunther dove down, ducking another tart, and gathered up the decimated remains of another pie. He immediately tossed it into the face of one of the ruffians while, to his left, Fang threw a tangerine pie at a retreating ruffian.

As more pies began to hit the invaders, however, the Cuddly Kitten gang started to notice one very crucial aspect about their enemies. They were not stopping. No matter how many pies struck them—and some actually knocked them down, the force was so much—the pub thugs were determined to reach the opposite barricade. They were running forward, dashing past tables and benches, eyes focused on their destination. They simply were not going to stop.

"Oh dear…"

* * *

"The next thing Chef Arnold said to do was to bake the pie for about half an hour or so—after heating up the stove, of course." Annabelle said, drumming a light tattoo upon the handle bar.

Attila nodded, "Of course."

"And then the pie would be done. Well, I did just that. I followed every direction Chef Arnold gave me, and you know what?"

"What?"

Annabelle grinned, "The pie tasted absolutely horrible."

"Really? Did you taste it?"

"Nope. Stan did. I took a piece to him, prouder than I had ever been in my entire life, and he ate it. All of it. Guess what he said."

Her uncle sighed, "I'm not sure I can."

"He said it tasted like sand. But he also told me it was the tastiest sand he had ever eaten. No one else would do something like that. _No one_."

"So the boy likes to eat dirt?"

"Uncle Attila, you're worse than Dad."

"Sorry. Can't help myself." Her uncle laughed, glancing over to see the repairman struggling with the mechanism still. "Do you think that guy's ever going to get that thing fixed?"

"And he's just so nice. I mean, I've met the sons of noblemen for goodness sake and none of them are as nice as Stan. Sometimes I wonder if…" Abruptly, she stopped speaking, her eyes widening with sudden realization. A sudden, horrible realization.

Attila shook his head, calling: "Don't yell at the machine—it's not going to get better if you shout!"

"Oh no."

"Exactly, Annie. That man has no clue what-."

"This is bad, this is very _very_ bad, this is really bad!"

He nodded in agreement, "Like I was saying-."

"No. No. _No_. N-n-n-no! This can't happen!" Annabelle clapped her hands to her face, muttering to herself.

Her uncle snorted, "What? Us being stranded on top the Ferris wheel until nightfall? Too late."

"I have a crush on Stan." She whispered fearfully.

Atilla rumbled, his voice echoing in his helmet, "Who?"

"What do you mean 'who'? The guy I've been talking about for the past three hours! The librarian's assistant—him—_Stan_! Dad will be furious!" Then she gasped: "_Dad_! No wonder he doesn't like him! He knew before I knew that I liked him! Ahhh!"

"Are we still talking about cooking?" Attila asked, clearly confused.

"No! Why do you want to talk about cooking at a time like this?" Suddenly her eyes grew, if possible, even wider. "Ahhh! My crush on Stan is so distracting it's getting in the way of cooking!"

"Um-."

"He's my best friend! I'm not supposed to have a crush on my best friend! That's not supposed to happen! I can't—I can't _like_ him! I mean, he's wonderful but—no! Not Stan! Anyone, even Wentworth who smells like fish, is better to like than Stan! Stan's too important for me to like him! It'll ruin our friendship! The world will end! And, worst of all, I can't go to the library anymore because he'll be right _there_!"

"Annie I don't think-."

"And I _love_ reading! I can't _not_ read! How am I supposed to explain this? Who can I talk to? Do I have to talk to anyone? I can keep a secret! Yes—that's what I'll do! I'll just keep my mouth shut and—and…" She quickly turned to glare at her uncle.

Attila held up his oven-mitted hands, "I won't say a word."

"Thanks. Now talk to me about cooking so I don't have to think about this anymore."

"How do you think my pie's doing in the contest?"

* * *

Thomas groaned, "For the last time, I didn't know it was called 'swindling'. It was just the way my dad taught me how to play the game."

"What else do you think you were doing?" Stephen asked, kicking a hank of straw underneath the bench he, his brother, and Thomas all sat upon.

"He was winning, Steve. Just _winning_." David protested moodily.

"Yeah, and because of that we were thrown out of the park. And then, afterwards he landed us in the security office with-," he sniffed at the slumbering man lying on the bench across from them, "-whoever that guy is."

Grumpy silence, pierced by the snores of their cellmate, filled the chamber. In reality, the boys were not actually in a prison cell. It was more like a small stall, fenced by a low wall that they could see across to the officer's desk beside the open, office door. Some noise—happy noise from the surrounding rides and games—filtered in through the entryway. There was also hearty laughter from the guards lounging outside as their superior officer shared a joke.

Thomas, fed up with being bored and annoyed with his fellows, pulled his harmonica out of his jacket pocket and began to blow through it. Slowly, after a few tries, he managed to stutter out a shaky version of the 'jailbird blues' his uncle had taught him.

Stephen shook his head, his blue eyes dark, but did not speak.

Just then, the mustachioed officer came back into the dim building. He grinned, raising his eyebrows, "Oh, _really_ funny, kid."

Thomas removed his harmonica from his mouth, muttering defensively, "What? It's the only song I've learned to play so far."

He shrugged and turned to his desk, opening up a logbook. "All right. Now let's see what I need to put you down for… ah yes-," he began to write across the page, "'cheating one of our game opperators' and-," he dipped his quill for ink before continuing, "-'breaking back into the park'. Wow, kid. You're a regular little Flynn Rider, aren't you?"

The boy's eyes lit up, "You think so?"

"Don't get so excited kid. Last thing I heard about Flynn Rider was that he disappeared off the face of the earth." The mustachioed officer glanced at him.

Thomas smirked, "Nah, he's just on vacation."

He laughed, "Sure kid. He's on vacation."

"How long are we going to be in here, Officer?" Stephen asked, not looking away from the floor.

"Until your parents/legal guardians/someone who's willing to take responsibility for you decides to pick you up. Or until the park closes in a few hours. Don't worry, boys. This will not go on your permanent record. Though-," the mustachioed officer turned to look seriously at them, "-I want all three of you to promise to forgo a life of crime from this day onward. Are we clear?"

"Yes sir."

"Good. Now, I'll just-." He broke off, listening to the sudden shouts coming from outside.

"Watch out!"

"Move!"

"You rotten scoundrels!"

"Run—run! These ladies are crazy so _run_!"

"Uncle Albert?" Thomas murmured in recognition, craning his neck to see what the frantic yelling was about.

"Who's Uncle Albert?" David asked interestedly as the mustachioed officer quickly raced outside.

"My uncle. I think I heard his voice-," there was a frightened squeak and several bellows, "-_that_ was Uncle Garcon."

Stephen narrowed his eyes, "What sort of uncles do you have?"

Thomas shrugged, replying simply: "Pub thugs."

"What?"

There was more shouting and a few screams. Then, after several minutes, the noise quieted down and the guards stopped barking orders. Thomas stood up on the bench, looking over the wall of their prison. Suddenly, the light from the outside was blocked as an out-of-breath Hook-hand wearily walked through the door. Behind him came the mustachioed officer, hand firmly on the thug's shoulder.

Hook-hand looked and felt worse for the wear. His face was red, he had a bruise over one eye, and his legs were trembling from exhaustion. He and his comrades had been chased up one end of the carnival and down the other by an enormous fleet of enraged, frustrated, and panicky females. He could never remember a day so tiring—and they still had not located Thomas or Ginger. Perhaps being arrested would not be so bad. After all, he would be able to avoid the wrath of the lost princess when she found out he and the others had lost her son and daughter.

The mustachioed officer went around to the other side of his desk, thumping a pair of handcuffs warningly upon it. He took up his logbook again, asking, "Disturbing the peace, are we? Irritating the ladies, eh? Well then, Mr. Albert, looks like I'll have to process you."

Hook-hand sighed, responding patiently, "I'm telling you, sir, we did not mean to start a riot with the knitting society. All we were doing is looking for our niece and nephew and-."

"Uncle Albert!"

"Tom?" He turned to see his nephew waving enthusiastically from his 'cell'. Immediately, Hook-hand's face brightened. "Thomas!"

He ran over to the boy and easily picked him up from the bench, laughing and hugging him.

"_He's_ your uncle?" David asked, gazing up at the thug in astonishment.

"Sure is." Thomas grinned, squirming his way out of his uncle's arms. "This is Uncle Albert."

Hook-hand clapped his hand upon Thomas's shoulder, smiling, "Dear boy where on earth have you been?"

"All over the place. Uncle Albert, what's going on? What happened?"

The grin on the thug's face faltered, and he looked over at the amused mustachioed officer. "Well…"

The man waved his hand, saying, "Just take the boy home, Mr. Albert. I can see you and your fellows meant no harm and, given what damage those ladies have already inflicted, I believe you to be sufficiently punished already."

"Thank you, sir."

"But what about-?" Thomas looked back at the two boys still sitting on the bench.

David smiled, "Don't worry about us, Tom. We'll be all right!"

The mustachioed officer nodded, "We'll take care of them, young sir. Do not worry."

Hook-hand began to lead his nephew towards the door, not noticing that the boy was still looking back at his partners in crime.

A certain understanding was exchanged between the trio—a mutual respect that was impossible to explain and yet also impossible to deny.

And then Stephen nodded, calling: "See you later, Tom."

Thomas smiled and turned away to follow his uncle out into the bright, afternoon sunlight.

* * *

After collecting Garcon, Archimedes and Axel, Hook-hand and Thomas all headed towards the entrance of the park. Along the way they were joined by a victorious Gunther, Archer, Fang, Bruiser, and Ulf—all of whom had apparently sent the Cuddly Kitten ruffians fleeing to the hills. All five thugs were covered in piecrust and innards, but they were cheerful and pleased to find their nephew returned to them. Then, upon reaching the entrance, they met up with Vladimir, Ginger, Big-nose, Thorn, Tor, Killer, and Shorty—most of whom were either playing with stuffed unicorns or using Vladimir's recently-won beach towel kit to dry off.

Then, at long last, the Ferris wheel was repaired and Attila and Annabelle joined the party.

She took one look at her bruised, pied, wet, toy-laden uncles and merely shook her head in resignation.

"Let's just go home."

* * *

The prince consort and princess of Corona arrived back home in the early hours of the next morning. It was still dark outside as they ascended the palace steps, and they were tired. After all, a trip across the ocean and then yet another journey over land can wear a person out. But they were happy and ready to see their family again after a long week of 'state business'.

"And that, my dearest Rapunzel, is why all my dreams tend to take place on islands." Eugene finished, nodding at the servants who had been summoned to fetch their luggage.

His wife smiled, "So the coconuts _do_ have something to do with it?"

"Yep. Coconuts are very important to the whole idea."

"Can you explain that?"

"Nope. It's just one of life's mysteries."

"Hmm…"

They walked, hand-in-hand, down the hallway, admiring the calm peacefulness of it all. Despite the excitement and relaxation of vacation, both were extremely glad to be back home in Corona. Both were also beginning to wonder what had become of their children and the pub thugs who were to have taken care of them.

"Do you think they just put them all to bed and that's why we haven't found them yet?" Rapunzel asked, glancing down another corridor devoid of any life save the guards.

Eugene shook his head, "Nah. My guess is they're probably all curled up in a room telling ghost stories or something."

"I wonder—wait-," she pointed at a room on the far end from which an orange light spilled out into the hall. "There they are."

Eugene followed his wife to stand in front of the doorway of an extra sitting room. He never understood why the palace had extra sitting rooms—it was something for which he never managed to get a satisfactory justification. However, the sitting rooms remained and he was left to muse on their existence.

This normal, puzzling prospect was, of course, driven completely from his mind when he saw the occupants of said extra sitting room.

All the thugs—all twenty of them—seemed to have collapsed where they stood. Some were snoring uproariously on the couches, others flung spread-eagled upon the floor, while still others slept within the armchairs. But what was most peculiar was their appearance. Several of them seemed to be cover in what looked like dried pie, while others bore more brusies and scratches than normal. Vladimir, nearly squashing the chair he sat in, was snuggled up with a large, fluffy toy unicorn. Big-nose had a battered ukulele in his grasp, and Hook-hand lay out next to the fire, his hook glinting in the light of the flames. There was also a suspiciously large pile of stuffed animals crammed in one corner of the room, but it was only slightly supicious.

"What on earth happened?" Rapunzel whispered, gazing at the exhausted thugs.

"More importantly—why is Vladimir hugging a stuffed unicorn?"

"Do you really have to ask that question?"

Eugene paused, considering. Then he shook his head, admitting, "I suppose not."

"Mom? Dad?" They both looked up to see Annabelle coming from where she had been sleeping on one of the couches.

"Annie, dear, how are you?" Rapunzel hugged her eldest child, fondly stroking back her hair.

"Tired. Weren't you guys supposed to get back tomorrow?"

"Technically. But your father-," Eugene grunted, and Rapunzel rolled her eyes, adding, "-and _I_ missed you too much to wait."

"Really, Dad?"

"Well-," Eugene glanced at the chameleon sitting on his shoulder, "-Pascal did too."

"Daddy?"

Suddenly, a blur sped out from the pile of stuffed animals to latch onto Eugene's leg. Eugene grinned and lifted his youngest up into his arms, murmuring, "Hello, Ginger-snap."

"Hi." She beamed at him and then looked to her mother, "Hi Mommy."

Rapunzel smiled, "Hello, sweetie. Are you all right?"

"Yep. Daddy, look at all the toys we got and Uncle Vlad won a lot of games and Annie and Uncle Attila got stuck on a giant wheel and Uncle Albert and Tom played pirates and we skated down the halls and Uncle Fang taughts us about shadow puppets and Uncle Attila made cupcakes and…" Eugene nodded, continuing to listen to this very rapid, very excited list of events as relayed by his younger daughter.

Rapunzel frowned, "Annie, where's Tom?"

"He's over by the fire with Uncle Albert. Um… he kind-of-."

Rapunzel's eyes widened, and she exclaimed, "What happened to his arm?"

"He broke it trying to fly."

Immediately, the princess turned to glare at her husband. He was, unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately, for his sake—too busy trying to listen to Ginger to notice.

Annabelle said hastily, "But he's okay, Mom. He just has a small fracture and he's not in any pain at all."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes ma'am. And it wasn't—well—it wasn't exactly any of our uncles' fault just-."

"Honey-," Eugene cut in, setting his finger gently against Ginger's mouth to stop her from talking, "-apparently we now have a zebra for a dinning room table."

"What?"

"And there is apparently a new mural drawn in one of the guest bathrooms upstairs, courtesy of your daughter."

Rapunzel sighed, deciding, "How about we just go to bed, and leave everything for tomorrow?"

Her husband nodded, "Sounds like a plan. Though I'm not entirely sure I want to know everything that's gone on during the past few days."

"Dad, I don't think—even in a million years—we _could_ tell you everything that happened." Annabelle told him, smiling slightly.

"Probably not. But, bedtime first, and everything else can come later."

As the four began the trip up to the royal apartments, the snoring in the extra sitting room lessened slightly. Then Thomas rolled over onto his side, away from the fire's light, and fell back asleep.

* * *

:) thanks for reading! :D


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